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ONE POOR SCRUPLE 



3 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE 

A SEVEN WEEKS’ STORY 


Bv J 

Mrs. WILFRID WARD 




NEW YORK 

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
LONDON AND BOMBAY 
1899 

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NOTE. — This book has been written at intervals in the course 
of the past seven years. It was finished three years ago with the 
exception of Chapters I., II. and VII. of Part I., and Chapters XL, 
XIII., XXIII. and XXIV. of Part II. At the suggestion of various 
friends who had read the MS., it has been during the past year 
completed and prepared for publication. 



CONTENTS. 

PART I. 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. Half-Mourning i 

II. Unripe Years lo 

III. Meeting at a Junction 28 

IV. The Home of the Persecuted 40 

V. An Indiscreet Photograph 55 

VI. A Letter from London 73 

VII. A Retrospect 80 

VIII. Dame Mary Riversdale’s Portrait .... 97 

IX. Madge Visits the Vault 104 

X. Benediction 119 

XL Madge Leaves Skipton 131 

XII. Mark Sings a Hymn 140 

PART II. 

I. Laura’s Embassy 158 

II. Hilda in London 167 

III. A Dinner Party 180 

IV. Amateur Diplomacy 191 

V. Hilda’s Letter to Her Mother 199 

VI. A Dull Week 204 


viii CONTENTS. 

CHAP. 

VII. Cecilia Appeals to Marmaduke 

VIII. The Evening at the Hurstmonceaux’ . . . . 

V 

IX. Madge has a New Fear 

X. Two Lovers Confide in Laura 

XL Opportunity 

XII. “Rabboni” 

XIII. Side-lights from Celestine 

XIV. Hilda Understands 

XV. Cecilia 

XVI. More about Cecilia 

XVII. The Rest about Cecilia 

XVIII. The Twenty-fourth of March 

XIX. Silence 

XX. Madge and Laura on the Twenty-fourth . 

XXL Lord Bellasis Meets Mark Fieldes on the Twenty- 

fourth 

XXII. Laura Drives Mark to the Reform Club . 

XXIII. The Eve of Lady Day 

XXIV. A Postscript 


PAGE 

210 

218 

229 

240 

251 

258 

267 

277 

291 

302 

309 

315 

329 

341 

349 

356 

369 

382 


PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 

HALF-MOURNING. 

It was not long after six o’clock on a winter’s evening, and 
the lady of the house was resting in a low, deep arm-chair, 
holding in her hand an unopened volume of French memoirs. 
In the silence of the room a small clock ticked audibly ; the 
noises from the street came, muffled and monotonous, through 
closed shutters and heavy curtains. Still it was possible to 
distinguish certain familiar sounds, the splash of a hansom, 
the heavy rumble of an omnibus, and at short intervals the 
smooth roll of carriage-wheels ; while occasionally a news- 
boy’s cry rose with sharp distinctness for a moment and 
died away as he passed on to busier thoroughfares. 

The lady of this house did not love the country in winter. 
She was fond of London, even of the sounds in the streets. 
They kept off the feeling of solitude which made the country 
so dreary in January and February. She was fond of her 
house, and of the drawing-room she was sitting in. It was 
long, low and narrow, rather too full of furniture and pretty 
things ; — a heterogeneous collection which pointed to much 
travelling, sufficient money and some originality. 

Yet, at first sight there was nothing original or artistic or 
markedly individual in the very correctly dressed woman in 
the arm-chair. Mrs. Hurstmonceaux was no longer young, 

I 


2 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


no longer handsome, — if indeed she had ever been so, — no 
longer capable of being very natural or impulsive or 
thoughtless. She had not sunk into reverie in her 
solitude, and she was not unconscious of the ringing of 
the door bell, soon followed by the appearance of the 
footman and the announcement of “ Mrs. George Riversdale”. 

“ Madge ! How delightful ! ” 

There was a gentle earnestness in the manner of the 
hostess. An inaudible greeting from the visitor followed ; 
and then she flung her tiny person into the arm-chair which 
Mrs. Hurstmonceaux had just quitted. 

“ I am dead tired, Laura,” she spoke with a quick uneven 
intonation ; “ I have had an odious afternoon.” 

And so you have come here to be rested. How charming ! 
That is treating a friend as a friend should be treated. But 
what have you been doing ? ” 

‘‘Going into mourning, — only half-mourning; but I had 
to get the things tried on to-day,” said the little lady, closing 
her eyes. 

“ But for whom ? ” Laura threw into her manner a touch 
of prospective sympathy. 

“ My husband,” said Madge, opening her eyes and sitting 
up abruptly. 

“ Your husband ! But, my dear Madge! ” 

“ Yes, I know, of course I went out of mourning long ago; 
and you have seen me in all the colours of the rainbow since ; 
and a year and a bit was long enough, considering ” 

She paused and Laura echoed “ considering,” with the 
added emphasis of her impressive low tones. 

“ Considering,” said Madge, taking up her word as though 
her friend had had no right to appropriate it, “ that I had not 
seen him for two years before that. All the same, just two 
years after his death I have been getting some exquisite half- 
mourning — fawns and violets are much better understood 
now than they used to be.” 


HALF-MOURNING. 3 

“And \{ you choose them,” murmured the listener, “of 
course ” 

“ Clothes are my only talent, so you need not be jealous,” 
Madge went on. “ But it isn’t every day that one finds people 
relapsing into mourning without fresh cause. I wonder you 
don’t want to know the reason why.” 

But I do,” said Laura in a tone of delicate reserve. 

“ It is only because I am going to stay with his people, and 
I haven’t the moral courage to go like this,” and she looked 
down at her geranium cloth skirt and smiled. 

A change almost too subtle to be described passed over 
her companion’s face. It was only a slight contraction of 
delicate lines about the long narrow eyes, denoting an increase 
of interest and alertness at this announcement. She was 
sitting on a low chair, nearer to the fire than her visitor. 
She now turned towards her, as if expecting to hear more. 
But Madge was not inclined to say anything. She moved 
restlessly as Laura waited, first trying one arm of the chair 
and then the other to lean upon. 

“You are really going to Skipton-le-Grange? ” La^ira asked 
at length. 

“Yes, isn’t it a bore? But I can’t get out of it this 
time.” * 

“ Can’t you ? ” Laura spoke thoughtfully, and turned her 
gaze to the fire. “Just now when all your friends are coming 
up and ” 

Madge interrupted her quickly. 

“ I must go to Skipton ; there are business things, money 
matters. I must see George’s father — then it doesn’t quite 
do to seem to have broken with them. They are letting the 
house in Portman Square to pay George’s debts. I don’t 
believe it is at all necessary, but that’s not my affair. Any- 
how the F s are thinking of taking it, only the furniture 

is so old-fashioned. Lady F told me there was nothing 

you could lie down upon. Imagine poor Lady F sitting 


4 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


bolt upright for months like my mother-in-law. I told Lord 

F I would see what could be done about the furniture. It 

would seem odd to them and to lots of people if they found out 
that I never see the Riversdales.” 

“ My dear, that is very good and sweet of you, but you 
know everybody quite understands the state of the case. 
After the way your husband treated you, nobody ” 

“ Oh, my dear Laura, do let us leave all that alone. I 
don’t mean to rake up skeletons this evening just because I 
am going to Skipton. It was far pleasanter to have George 
absent than George present, I assure you.” 

Madge gave a hard little laugh. 

“ But, Laura, tell me of some amusing novels to take to 
Skipton — something a little exciting will help me to pull 
through the time. Only the oldest housemaid is allowed to 
dust my French books, for fear of corruption. That reminds 
me. I have forgotten the candles. My candles used to be 
on an allowance of so many a week when we lived there. 
I must tell Celestine to take down a few pounds of candles 
and some scented soap.” 

Madge pulled a minute note-book out of her pocket and 
made notes in it, talking without intermission. Laura leaned 
back, wondering when she should be allowed to speak. 

“ I think I shall leave this book out for old Mother Rivers- 
dale’s benefit : ‘ List of provisions for a visit to Skipton- 
le-Grange: soap, candles, cigarettes, marrons-glaces'. he 
haiser de yuliette^ and a little more French fiction will give 
her shivers of righteous wrath all down her spine. Then 
she suffers agonies because of my maids. She is convinced 
that the worst quarters of Paris are ransacked to find me 
attendants of the lowest principles. I must take some claret 
for Celestine. It will be proof positive of her vicious pro- 
pensities that she can’t drink beer.” 

Laura had laughed noiselessly, but with polite appreciation, 
several times ; she now tried again to speak. 


HALF-MOURNING. 


5 


“ But besides this economical lady ” 

Madge stopped her with a little shriek of derision. 

“ Economical ! It is the most extravagant house in 
England. I could save two thousand a year in that house 
and make them twice as comfortable. The only thing that 
is properly managed is the stables, and now they are selling 
some of the hunters. It is such nonsense. If they would 
send away a few of the men who are eating their heads off in 
the house, and make the others work properly ! — but half of 
them are too old to do anything, and the others are raw boys 
from the village. I believe the whole of that village lives 
upon Skipton in one way or another. Then the arrangements 
are made entirely to suit the housemaids and kitchenmaids. 
They must have time for Mass and for prayers and for Bene- 
diction, and for their own mending. No wonder it takes a 
round dozen of them to clean the house when their time is 
as full up as if they lived in a convent.” 

“ But, Madge, who is there besides housemaids ? Will 
you be alone with Mr. and Mrs. Riversdale ? I thought 
people of that sort always had enormous families.” 

“ I believe there were several children who died ; she 
would manage them all herself, and she said the great thing 
was to harden them. Anyhow it was dreadfully muddled, 
and George, the eldest, and Mary, the youngest, were the 
only two who grew up under the Riversdale system of 
rearing.” 

Madge’s face darkened as she spoke, and she went on in 
an angry tone. 

“ The Riversdales have no constitutions. I believe the 
race is worn out. They have grazed on at Skipton since 
the twelfth century, and the dulness of it has got into their 
bones. Elizabeth gave them a little excitement by hanging 
one at Tyburn and putting his son into the Tower for life. 
But since then, except for hunting, they’ve done nothing, 
nothing, nothing. There are two of George’s uncles alive, 


6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


but they are both priests. Mary is heir to the whole thing, 
as,” her voice became more metallic, “ as my baby girl died.” 

Laura looked a sympathy which was not accepted. 
Madge jumped up suddenly and walked to the fireplace. 

“ Yes, there will be Mary and one girl cousin ; they are 
both to come out at the hunt ball. My mother-in-law is 
evidently afraid that I have accepted for next week, so as to 
go with them to the dance. But I’ve passed the days when 
I used to enjoy those balls. She has always had a grudge 
against me on the subject since the first ball in the county 
after I married. Oh, dear, how funny it was ! First of all 
she was in a great fidget when we started, because she 
thought my dress too decolletee. Then she kept giving me 
hints that in really aristocratic circles it was not the custom 
for a bride to dance except with her husband. But as George 
had refused to come with us, she couldn’t make much of 
that. When we got there,” Madge’s eyes sparkled with 
pleasure now and she laughed merrily, “ Mrs. Rivers- 
dale began solemnly presenting me to the great ladies of 
the neighbourhood, very kindly, but just letting them see 
that she only wished I was somebody else with more 
connections to talk about. Well, in the midst of this 
delightful way of enjoying the ball, who should arrive but 

the B s, and royalty with them. Of course I got among 

their party in a moment, and had a real good time. I could 
die of laughing now when I think of Mrs. Riversdale’s face 
as she sat by old Lady Archibourne while I waltzed by 
with Prince A. to whom she had not even been presented.” 

Laura smiled indulgently, but she had had enough of this 
chatter. 

“ And why do you choose next week ? ” she asked. Her 
tone was firm and decided ; she would get an answer. 

“ I told you,” said Madge weakly. 

Laura shrugged her shoulders incredulously — then she 
went on : — 


HALF-MOURNING. 


7 


“ There are quite a number of nice things next week, the 

tableaux at Little Goreham House and the P ’s ball. 

It is just the time when London is at its nicest I think. 
By the way, I heard from a friend of yours to-day who is 
coming up on Monday ; he says ” 

Laura turned to a carved bureau behind her and opened a 
drawer. A quick colour came and went in Madge’s face, 
but she did not speak. 

“ I can’t find it, I must have left it downstairs,” which 
was mendacious, if necessary, as she had never intended to 
show the letter that lay before her. 

“You mean Lord Bellasis ? ” said Madge. She was 
warming her feet at the fire and her back was turned to 
Laura. “ I know he is coming up on Monday ; I was 
asked to meet him at dinner next week at the Duchess of 
A.’s, but I said I should be at Skipton.” 

Laura’s face for a moment betrayed her surprise. 

What did it mean ? Had she been mistaken in thinking 

that Madge but no, Madge had frankly owned how 

much she wished Lord Bellasis would come to London. 
Perhaps she had been too frank, perhaps after all 

But it was very tiresome that Madge should be such a 
fool, after this letter from Lord Bellasis too ; it was really 
exceedingly provoking. 

“ I must be off,” said Madge, moving a few steps away 
from the fireplace. 

“ Oh, no, my dear Madge, it is quite early. We have not 
half done our talk, you must stay.” 

“ I must go, on the contrary,” said Madge. “ I have got 
a splitting headache. I went to that funeral this afternoon.” 

“ Then I don’t wonder. How very foolish ! My dear, 
why did you go ? You didn’t know her well, and she was 
not even of your religion. I thought you Roman Catholics 
didn’t go to services in other churches unless it was neces- 
sary.” 


8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Oh, yes, we go to weddings and funerals. I was at her 
wedding a year ago. Isn’t life short, Laura ? You grow 
up and you marry and you die.” 

“Well, I haven’t died yet,” said Laura, “and we shouldn’t 
like to say how long it is since our wedding day. This 
death was a sad accident, and you and other young women 
make yourselves quite nervous over it. You should read a 
few statistics, that would cheer you up.” 

Madge was standing in front of Laura, holding her sable 
muff up to her chin with both hands, her attitude betraying 
complete inattention to what was said. The grey eyes, with 
long lashes, the eyebrows perhaps artificially darkened, 
looked more thoughtful and a little softer than usual. 

“ The baby was buried with her,” she said in a dreamy 
voice, “ and I think she was a good little woman. She will 
have the baby back directly she has done her Purgatory. 
Was the baby baptised ? ” 

The last question was an abrupt addition and was really 
addressed to Laura. 

“ I haven’t the faintest notion. My dear Madge, do not 
for heaven’s sake become morbid. I am sure you are not 
well, and if you go down to that horrid place you won’t be 
fit to speak to afterwards.” 

Madge laughed, and suddenly straightened herself. She 
shook her head. 

“ On the contrary I shall be so thankful to get away, and 
oh, Laura, I nearly forgot the books. You always know the 
best ones. Give me something, do.” 

“ Well, here is a new one of Gyp’s. I’ve not read it yet. 
And here’s something by a man I never heard of before. 
You are sure to like it. It is so fine, penetrating, delicate, 
— not over moral perhaps, but tenderly treated, nothing to 
shock or startle.” 

“ Thank you, dear, that will do beautifully. Come and 
look me up to-morrow. I go on Monday. Good-night.” 


HALF-MOURNING. 


9 


Madge gave Laura half a kiss and walked to the door, then 
turned round and said : “ Will Cecilia Rupert be up next 
week ? ” 

“Yes.” Laura spoke eagerly. “Lord Bellasis tells me 
that he has heard from her. She will be back in London 
on Monday.” 

“ Oh,” Madge hesitated. “ Oh, well, I forget what I was 
going to say. How absurd ! Good night, Laura.” 

After the door was closed, Laura moved impatiently back 
to her chair. She was too consciously dignified to let 
herself appear “ fussed ” or “ flurried,” but those conditions 
were really hers. 

“ I did think she had more sense. I can’t think what she 
is up to. I don’t know what nonsense or notion of making 
herself interesting that sort of silly little woman gets into 
her head.” 

Laura lay back for some minutes, but her thinking soon 
ceased to be explicit. Her instincts were at play round the 
question she wanted to solve. At last she looked up with a 
little glow upon her face. She had got the mot de Venigme 
that she was seeking for, and although it was not a satis- 
factory solution, she preferred it to the humiliation of feeling 
puzzled. 

“ It is religious — I am sure it is religious. That little 
Mrs. Wakefield’s death upset her. She has got a fright as to 
her own thin little soul. She is going down to Skipton to give 
it a sort of spring cleaning, to put it in order and to make it 
comfortable. I really don’t know that it much matters. 
I will ask Lord Bellasis to come and have a talk. Perhaps 
he will dine with me on Monday — that would be easier, on 
the whole, than writing a letter to explain things.” 


CHAPTER 11. 


UNRIPE YEARS. 

Another widow of the house of Riversdale, but of the previous 
generation, was much occupied with preparations for the 
hunt ball of which Madge had spoken. Mrs. Arthur Rivers- 
dale was not going to stay at Skipton-le-Grange herself, but 
she was sending thither her daughter Hilda, who was to come 
out at the hunt ball with Mary, the squire’s daughter. The 
two first cousins, the only Riversdales of their generation, 
were to make their appearance together ; and whatever was 
felt about the matter at Skipton-le-Grange, there was no 
doubt that excitement prevailed at Brierley Cottage, the 
little Sussex home of the widow and her daughter. 

Mrs. Arthur Riversdale was at this time verging upon 
middle age. She was nervous, delicate and emotional, and 
these characteristics were clearly discernible in her thin dark 
face. The high, well-constructed forehead pointed to an 
intellectual descent ; but a certain indecision in the lines of 
the mouth indicated that physical strength had probably been 
lacking to full mental development. 

Janet Riversdale was the daughter of James Harding, a 
critic and essayist of considerable repute, who had lived 
amongst men greater than himself, and had helped not a little 
to make them known and understood. At Cambridge he 
had belonged to a set many members of which had attained 
in later years to eminence in politics and letters. And his 
college associates had remained life-long friends. 

James Harding’s father, the dean of a southern cathedral, 
had educated him in Broad Church principles, of the Rugby 

( 10 ) 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


II 


Stamp ; and James had gradually widened into the degree of 
tolerance and the kindly indifference to all forms of creed 
that marked so many of the disciples of Dr. Arnold. He 
encouraged his daughter Janet and her sister to contemplate 
all that was good and beautiful in any religion, nor was he 
much distressed when the outcome of such liberty was, in 
Janet’s case, the passing through a course of Newman’s 
writings to submission to the Church of Rome. At the 
time when this change took place, Janet’s mother had been 
dead for some years, and her father was living, in a house in 
Eaton Square, a liberal, hospitable existence, without pre- 
tension, but with the full enjoyment of the society of many 
friends of intellectual and artistic tastes. At the studio of a 
Roman Catholic artist, with whom her change of religion 
naturally made her intimate, Janet met Arthur Riversdale,, 
the specimen of a type entirely new to her. To her father’s 
intense astonishment, she fell in love with the tall, large 
limbed, sunny-faced young man, with whom he himself 
had not two ideas in common. He supposed, and pro- 
bably in part rightly, that Janet’s enthusiasm for all and 
everything Catholic had thrown a halo round the youth,, 
who was undoubtedly fervent in his religion. 

But, even without this link to draw them together, there 
was nothing in the attachment that ought to have surprised 
those who looked on. 

“Arthur Riversdale is a proper man, a well-built man, 
has a fine open face, and, although he is simple, he has the 
manners of a man of very good stock. What are you 
wondering at, James Harding?” 

Such had been the comment of a great authority among 
them, as he blew clouds of smoke from his pipe in the long 
library in Eaton Square. 

If Janet had some reason to complain of want of sympathy 
over her engagememt, Arthur had far more coldness to put 
up with in his own family. He was the youngest. His. 


12 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


parents were dead, and his brothers and sisters were all 
settled in life. Two of his brothers had become priests, 
three sisters were nuns, and two had married. His eldest 
brother, George, had been in possession of the very large 
family property for some years, and lived with his young 
wife — who belonged to another Catholic family, the Le- 
marchants of Lancashire — at Skipton-le-Grange. Arthur 
had never felt the want of a home. He had always been 
welcome to come and go as he chose at Skipton. He was 
devoted to George, and he was amused by his pretty sister- 
in-law, who ruled and mothered him in a tiresome but 
kindly way. Then, too, he had been drawn to her by her 
unsparing devotion to another brother, who had died of a 
painful and lingering illness, following on an accident in the 
hunting-field. 

To the squire, and to his wife, through him, Arthur 
wrote in the joy of his heart to announce his engagement 
to Miss Harding, and the news was received with consterna- 
tion. The squire told his wife at breakfast, and she could 
not restrain her wrath ; in fact her speech flowed on in 
such an agitated way that her husband could hardly get in 
a word of explanation. 

“ Arthur engaged, and nobody had heard a word about it ! 
Hardings ! Who had ever heard of the Hardings ? Who 
were they ? ” 

Helen wished her husband would read the letter more 
quickly. She was sure she didn’t know of any Catholic 
Hardings. Good heavens ! Was it possible that this girl 
was not a Catholic ? No, a convert ! A convert ! 

“ Oh, my dear, a new convert, just made a Catholic ! Of 
course she has done it to marry Arthur. How shocking ! ” 

What could be done ? George must go up to London 
and break the engagement off at once; it could not be 
allowed. What dreadful news at breakfast, and just that 
morning when she had been so worried. Baby was not so 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


13 


well, and the new housemaid had arrived with a fringe, and 
had tried to hide it under her cap before she came to Mass 
— so deceitful. And now George would go on reading the 
letter to himself and would not tell her who these designing 
Hardings were. A granddaughter of Dean Harding — and a 
dean, wasn’t that a kind of Protestant clergyman ? How 
could Arthur have got among such people ? And her father 
wrote books. Good gracious ! And what sort of books ? 
“ Essays on Criticism.” How shocking and unbelieving 
they must be ! This was worse and worse. And poor 
Arthur really wanted to marry this girl ? etc., etc., till the 
pretty little face behind the great silver hot-water urn 
puckered into tears, and the big tender-hearted squire had 
to leave his coffee at the other end of the table, to avert with 
unfailing tact and some assertion of authority, a crying fit 
which might lead to serious consequences. 

Although the squire himself was almost as much annoyed 
at this engagement as was his wife, he insisted on their 
concealing their feelings in their letters to Arthur. How- 
ever, quite enough was betrayed in the studied words in 
which “ good wishes ” were far more prominent than con- 
gratulations, for Janet to read a good deal between the lines. 
Still there was nothing wanting in either outward civility 
or munificent presents ; and in those days it seemed quite 
natural that the squire should not bring his wife up to the 
wedding. It was not until they had been married over six 
months that Arthur and Janet paid their first visit to Skipton. 

Janet arrived in a mood not to be trifled with, and Arthur 
thought her unreasonable to be dissatisfied with a reception 
that to the masculine mind was cordiality itself. But Janet’s 
perceptions were quicker, and, in spite of the kindness to 
Arthur’s wife, she was by no means satisfied with the atti- 
tude taken up towards her father’s daughter. Then, too, she 
was constantly lectured by her sister-in-law on her duties as 
a Catholic. 


H 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


One little scene will suffice to show what soon became 
the relations between the sisters-in-law in those early days. 

Unfortunately one wet afternoon they were left to them- 
selves, and the hostess thought it a good opportunity to say 
a few things which were in her mind, to Arthur’s wife. The 
difficulty was how to begin with tact. 

Had Janet, she asked, seen this week’s Tablet? There 
was something in it about a book Janet had got upstairs, 
Adam Bede. Wouldn’t Janet like to see what was said 
about it? Of course Janet could have no idea how wicked 
it was. Would she look at the notice, and then she was 
•sure she would agree that they had better fetch the book and 
burn it ? 

To this Janet replied that she had seen the review and 
that it was very narrow and unfair. 

Helen, bending a little flushed over her needlework, was 
sure Janet would forgive her for saying that of course she 
didn’t know that it was a mortal sin to read a book like that. 

Janet, leaning back and lolling in a way that was intoler- 
able to her companion, got a little flushed also, but remained 
silent. 

Of course, Helen explained, converts couldn’t be taught 
-everything at once, and now that they were alone she was 
sure Janet would let her observe that it was much better to 
make her morning meditation in the chapel before Mass — 
nobody could do it quite so well after breakfast. 

Janet still remaining silent, Helen hoped she wouldn’t 
mind her telling her about indulgences. Of course Janet 
didn’t know — converts never did know — how many in- 
dulgences you could get in the year if you did things on 
the right days. 

But here Janet looked up from her book and interrupted 
Helen. She didn’t think Helen knew that she had a director 
who was quite satisfied on these points, and she would rather 
leave the matter to him. 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


15 


“ But then Arthur says you go to confession to Father 
Newman, and if you don’t mind, Janet, my saying so, you 
know he was a Protestant clergyman, and he can’t quite 
know.” 

“ But I do mind very much,” said Janet, rising and hold- 
ing her tall, thin figure to its full height, “ and now, as I 
am very tired, I am going upstairs to lie down and finish 
Adam Bede.” 

“ My husband never allows me to read any novels,” mur- 
mured the indignant Helen, “ and I shall speak to him and 
ask him to speak to Arthur.” 

At this threat Janet smiled in an aggravating manner and 
left the room. 

Hilda was born in that year, and she has grown since then 
to be eighteen years old, and she is to go to Skipton as a 
grown-up young lady. How little look the trifles of dis- 
agreement, of annoyance, now, as her mother glances back- 
ward through the mist of years ; how great and engulfing 
the sorrows that brought her to a deeper, fuller heart. 

If the Riversdales had thought Janet an unequal match for 
Arthur — if they had shown some worldly contempt and some 
sectarian prejudices — who else had so truly mourned with 
Janet his early death? Who else had been so generous in 
coming to her help when James Harding died, and it was 
found that his large careless way of living had left his 
daughters, not only without the considerable fortune that 
had been expected, but with next to nothing to live upon ? 
Janet, too, on her side had found room in a broken heart for 
the sorrows of the Riversdales. She had grieved with them 
over the strange, persistent visiting of the angel of death in 
the nursery at Skipton. She had shared those terrible and 
sacred sorrows which had faded Helen’s young beauty so 
quickly, and drawn lines of pathetic resignation round the 
squire’s strong mouth and large blue eyes. 


i6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Less easy, less simple to sympathise with, was the greatest 
trouble of all. For those little children were gone for a very 
short time, and it often seemed to both the parents that they had 
not gone far away. In moments after communion, moments 
when they knelt together alone before the Blessed Sacrament, 
they felt that those four boys and girls and one tiny baby were 
about them still. Under the chapel in the vault below lay 
those short coffins, and our Blessed Lady kept the spotless 
souls ever in her sight. The simple parents had been willing 
to bear with Janet’s sympathy, and were grateful for kind 
thoughts, kind words, and best of all for faithful prayers 
for the father and mother on the anniversaries of the children’s 
death. But when George, the only son, grew up to be a 
source of incessant anxiety and miserable perplexity, and at 
last became an open shame, what sympathy could be delicate 
enough to be offered them ? 

The story of young George Riversdale was a family tragedy 
never to be forgotten. Much had been hoped from his 
possible marriage with some girl of high principle and strong 
character. Such hopes were disappointed, and he had taken 
to himself a wife from a far country — morally speaking at 
least. 

During a visit to Scotland — six years before the com- 
mencement of this narrative — George had made friends with 
a family which was notable for its great wealth, due to 
successful commerce in Liverpool. The O’Reillys were 
of Irish extraction, and consequently traditional Roman 
Catholics, though practically and personally their creed was 
chiefly concerned with Mammon. Their second daughter, 
Madge, or Midget, as she was sometimes called from her 
minute proportions, had received her education in a foreign 
convent of the first rank. There the beauty and refinement 
of her outward woman had been duly developed. Her French 
education and her Celtic descent combined to perfection, and 
produced a strange variation in the Liverpool merchant’s 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


17 


family. Yet there was enough to excuse the Riversdales for 
their dislike to the connection ; and George pleaded in vain 
that the O’Reillys had of late associated with some of the 
best families in Scotland. Neither this undeniable fact, nor 
the bride’s large fortune, consoled his parents. In their eyes 
the girl was not only without antecedents, but was weak and 
frivolous. Her ways and standards were those of a section of 
the modern world which was unknown to them, and were 
ascribed by them entirely to her birth and her character. She 
was no good wife for a son whom they already unwillingly 
recognised as himself so unstable in character and so much 
in need of guidance. But seeing that the marriage was inevit- 
able, they behaved in what they thought the most cordial 
manner. Mrs. Riversdale determined that this unfortunate 
little O’Reilly girl should live with them so soon as she be- 
came Mrs. George, and then she could teach her new 
daughter-in-law how to be a fervent Catholic and a lady. The 
results of such a family arrangement may be imagined ; but 
the episode of Madge’s early married life at Skipton is for our 
purposes prehistoric, and need not be further dwelt upon 
here. 

The arrangement had not lasted, and George’s subsequent 
ill conduct and ultimate desertion of his wife, his death in 
scandalous surroundings, without a priest, and with no mes- 
sage of sorrow left for his widow, had added bitterness on all 
sides to the memories associated with the union between 
George Riversdale and Madge O’Reilly. 

None had felt more deeply for his parents than Janet. But 
what could be said to give them comfort ? What words could 
be framed which would not rather keep the wound open ? 

A little silence then had grown up between Skipton-le- 
Grange and Brierly Cottage in the time of mourning for 
George ; and both sides were glad when an opportunity 
arose which made it natural to renew the family intercourse. 
Such an opportunity was the revival of social meetings at 

2 


i8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the family house, and the assembling of a party there for the 
hunt ball. 

After thirteen years of seclusion, of a life spent partly in 
a round of religious duties, partly in a dream world, not much 
tried by the smallness of her fortune (for her wants were few), 
Mrs. Arthur was attempting to face the fact that she had a 
grown-up daughter, a tall, and in her eyes, a beautiful girl, 
“ a maid whom there were few to know, and very few to 
love,” in the quiet Sussex neighbourhood. 

On the Saturday afternoon before the Monday on which 
Hilda was to start for Skipton, her mother went to lie down 
on the sofa in her bedroom, being under the impression that 
by so doing she could materially assist in the preparations 
for Hilda’s journey. 

It was the largest and most attractive room in the house, 
and one of the two big windows, reaching almost from floor 
to ceiling, afforded a wide view of the downs. Within, the 
room had a charm of its own not easily to be described. The 
colouring was subdued and not specially artistic. The dimity 
curtains were clean but not beautiful. The furniture was old- 
fashioned and stiff. The tables were littered with books, 
papers and vases of flowers in a careless medley. Yet there 
was about it an atmosphere of sentiment, of reminiscence, 
of mental refinement. And it had its treasures. A water- 
colour by Richmond of Arthur Riversdale in his red coat ; a 
sketch of James Harding reading aloud, by Thackeray; 
amateur photographs that could only have come from one 
camera ; little scraps in water-colour by no unskilled hands ; 
there “ a sunset touch,” here “ a fancy from a flower bell, — ” 
who has not known and loved such a room, where nothing 
is a mere ornament, and everything that catches the eye is 
a living relic of love and happiness ? 

After she had lain for a few moments on the big, chintz- 
covered, square-limbed sofa, Janet noticed that an unfinished 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


19 


letter to her sister lay on the table by her side. She called 
to the maid who was packing Hilda’s things in the next 
room, and sent her to fetch her writing board from the 
drawing-room. The letter had been begun a week before, 
and had been forgotten till now. She lay back and wrote 
as follows : — 

“ So it is all decided at last, and I am very thankful. It 
is far best for Hilda to come out at her father’s home and at 
the same time with Mary. I think it is quite generous of 
the Riversdales to suggest this, for although Mary is a great 
heiress, and Hilda no heiress at all, there can be no com- 
parison in appearance, still less in mind. But I suspect 
you may smile at this bit of maternal vanity, so I won’t 
enlarge upon it. I know you think I ought to go with her, 
but indeed I cannot do it, Elaine. For me to go to a ball 
party, and now, when so few people keep their weeds, would 
appear quite singular. Later on it may be necessary for me 
to do something. I might take Hilda to Rome, or there 
might be a few weeks in London, if we could afford it. But 
then whom should we see ? All papa’s friends are scattered 

now, and, you know, except the H s there were no 

Catholics among them. 

“ Though it is so painful to us to part, and the child is most 
anxious that I should go with her, I can’t but think it is a 
good thing to have a short separation. Our tHe-a-tete life 
has its drawbacks, although we are everything in the world 
to each other. If we are not always inclined to say all that 
is in our minds, we appear to be reserved, and then a little 
feeling grows up which is not good. The child is changing, 
she cannot help it ; she is beginning to feel her feet, to want 
to walk by herself, and she does not quite know why or how 
to do it. Although she still grumbles a little at my not 
allowing her to go to, Newnham, I think she is hankering 
after more frivolous things than she will acknowledge. The 
fact is she doesn’t know what she wants, or what to be at 


20 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


just now, and she resents being watched or analysed. Do 
you remember Adonis’ half-angry cry to Venus ? 

“ Fair Lady, if that any love you owe me 
Measure my strangeness by my unripe years, 

Before I know myself, seek not to know me. 

But don’t think she is less loving and careful of me than 
she ever was. She is thinking now of all sorts of little 
plans to keep me amused while she is away. Only I want 
you to understand why it seems better to let the duckling 
get a swim by itself, and where could it be safer than at 
Skipton ? 

“ Thank you for telling me of that stupid rumour as to 
Hilda’s supposed expectations. I could wish for the child’s 
sake that it had become generally known how completely all 
our father’s fortune had melted. I suppose people don’t know 
that he only had a life interest in what his uncle left him. 
All the rest of his income came from the Times and his 
books. As you went abroad and nobody saw me after his 
death, the error is not surprising.” 

Here the letter was suddenly interrupted, again to be put 
on one side and forgotten. A little rustle was heard at the 
door, a hasty knock, and then a tall girl walked into the 
room, dressed in a white tulle ball gown, followed by a little, 
wrinkled, elderly woman, who held up the skirt with one 
hand and raised the other in indignant protest. 

“Now, Miss Hilda, if you would but move quietly; you 
nearly caught it on the door ; it won’t be fit to be seen.” 

Hilda, with her little head erect, her eyes sparkling, and 
her dark rosy colouring flushed with excitement, paid no 
heed to these remonstrances. 

“ Do you approve of me, mother ? Brown, do let go and 
let me curtsy. I want to show mother how the tulle swells 
out all round me. There, I don’t do it badly.” Then mov- 
ing to the glass : “ Really I stand a white frock in the day- 
time better than I expected.” 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


21 


Mrs Riversdale gazed at her anxiously but proudly. 

“ Dear child, do stand still,” but though the words were 
repressive, the eyes shone with sympathy. She saw a little 
shyness, a little pride in Hilda’s face, a little wonder at her 
own excitement, which gave a touch of distinction to the 
bearing of the tall young figure. 

The child seemed half ashamed of showing herself off 
even here, and she blushed as the parlourmaid brought in 
the letters which had come by the afternoon post. But Mrs. 
Arthur could by no means give any attention to the letters 
at this crisis. Sitting upright on the sofa, she was wonder- 
ing, fearing, that perhaps one bow of white ribbon was too 
large. 

“ I am almost afraid that it’s a little — in fact I think — 
it is — not quite ” 

Brown, the old maid, and general referee, waited for 
further light to be vouchsafed her, and Hilda gave a little 
wriggle. The short wintry daylight would soon be gone ; 
the sun was setting behind the great ridge of the down, and 
sending its pure, rosy light through the west window of the 
bedroom. The radiance gave a touch of colour to the trans- 
parent white material of the ball-gown. It lay caressingly 
for a moment on Hilda’s long arms and beautifully 
moulded neck. It lit up her small irregular features, and 
was reflected in the depths of the large brown eyes. No 
wonder if the mother was silent for a moment as she looked 
at her, and kept them waiting for an explanation of her 
doubts. Leaning back at length, as though she had come 
to a final decision — 

“ I really think that sash is a little exaggerated,” she said 
firmly. “ I wish they had not sent the gown down so late.” 

“ But, oh, mother,” cried Hilda, suddenly stepping forward 
so as really to endanger the white folds about her feet, “ look 
at the letters. It is Skipton-le-Grange note-paper ; I do hope 
nothing has gone wrong.” 


22 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Her mother turned to the parlourmaid who was forming 
her own opinion of the ball-gown, and took the letter from 
the salver. 

“ It is from Skipton ; it must be something about your 
train,” she said. 

After the first glance Janet’s face changed. She read the 
letter to the end, and then turned to her daughter with a 
troubled countenance. 

“You h^d better take the frock off now, my child, and 
leave me for a little while.” 

“ Mother, do just tell me, is it anything about the ball ? ” 

Mrs. Arthur hesitated. 

“ I am so sorry, darling, but Lord Archibourne is dead and 
there is to be no hunt ball.” 

Hilda bit her lip and pressed her long fingers together. 
There was a moment’s silence. 

“ What a bore ; but never mind, mother, you know I was 
dreadfully shy about it. But what a pity to have got such 
an expensive dress,” and the voice rose plaintively ; “ it will 
be quite old-fashioned by next year.” 

“ Oh, my dear, I hope you will use it long before next year. 
Run and take it off now, and, darling, give me one kiss. I 
am so very sorry.” 

Hilda bent over her mother for one quick kiss and was 
• glad to get away without having to speak in too broken a 
voice. 

“ Though where mother supposes I shall dance before 
next year I can’t imagine,” she thought. “ Poor mother, 
she minds it more than I do. I don’t really so very much 
care.” 

She pulled the frock off a little roughly, and when Brown 
remonstrated, asked her what it could matter now, and began 
to rub cheeks, already suspiciously wet, with a cold sponge, 
regardless of future effects on her complexion. 

Having replaced the glories of the fresh white tulle by 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


23 


workaday, plainly made, blue serge, she ran down the short 
flight of stairs two steps at a time, crossed the little hall into 
the drawing-room and threw herself into an arm-chair by 
the fireplace. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear. It is a bore,” she cried, “ and if there 
is to be no ball, I suppose it will be only the regular Skipton 
lot. Aunt Helen will take me to the school,” she was half 
crying, half laughing as she spoke, “ and Mary will let me 
help her to arrange the sacristy. I don’t think I shall enjoy 
it half as much now as I did going with mother to visit her 
great poet last autumn. I am quite sure that, with the 
exception of papa, the Riversdales are the dullest family in 
England. I know it’s quite true, as mother says, one ought 
to admire them — their pluck and their faith and all that — 
but then they’ve got all that in the blood. I wonder if I’ve 
got it in the blood too. Oh dear,” she got up, heaved a deep 
sigh, and looked up at a portrait in oils of her father which 
hung over the mantelpiece, “ I wonder if it’s heresy to think 
that perhaps one’s own father was a little dull. Of course 
mother was in love with him, and so she thought he was 
perfection. But I don’t know what there is to prove that 
he was unlike all the other Riversdales. 

“ I don’t think mother’s right about the sash,” she went 
on. “ I suspect it is exactly the fashion — though,” with a 
sharp sigh, “ that doesn’t much matter now. A plain white 
satin sash cannot manage to be vulgar — or ‘ not quite ’. I 
wonder if Valerie is quite as good a dressmaker as she was 
when mother was in London fifteen years ago. Those 
Freemantle girls, who came in to tea the other day, seemed 
very smart, but they had not even heard of her. They said 
they weren’t sure that they knew of all the good dressmakers 
in London, however. One does want to be well dressed at 
Skipton. Though Aunt Helen dresses Mary so badly, she is 
very critical about other people. But after all, mother’s taste 
is very good, though it may not be fashionable. She is 


24 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


dreadfully disappointed at my not getting to the ball, but I 
wonder why she told me to leave her alone. I hope there 
is nothing else wrong in the letter. Oh dear, such is 
life ! ” 

More than half an hour passed after Hilda left her mother s 
room, and during that time the widow was leaning back 
almost motionless — re-reading the letter between long pauses 
of reflection. 

It was written in a small, flowing, and yet precise hand- 
writing, and was to the following effect : — 

“ My dear Janet, 

“ I have to tell you of a blow for our young people 
as well as a sorrow for ourselves. Lord Archibourne has 
died of the results of his accident in the hunting-field, and 
we shall miss him as a good, upright neighbour, although, 
poor man, a Protestant. It would hardly seem right to have 
a hunt ball so soon after this, and so it is given up. I am 
afraid this will be a disappointment to Hilda — but I hope 
she will come and stay with us all the same. 

“ Of course for myself it is a relief, as I had dreaded going 
into the world again. But as it is two years since our 
beloved son died, I do not think it right to keep Mary, now 
that she is nineteen, shut up any longer ; — not that she, 
poor child, has any wish for gaiety. Anyhow the ball is put 
off, and the question settled for us, so we have also given 
up our house party. Another trial, however, cannot be 
avoided, and I think it right to tell you of this before you 
send your girl to us. Mr. Riversdale again desired me to 
invite dearest George’s widow to come to Skipton, and she has 
chosen this very week. I cannot think that she can wish 
to see us, but it is possible that, though she thought so 
little of the baby’s death at the time, she may wish to visit 
the vault where it lies. For the first time I do not regret 
that George is not buried here. But I must not dwell on 
my feelings, and we must hope that her coming is a sign of 


UNRIPE YEARS. 25 

grace. I am trying to get Father Clement to meet her, as 
he used to do her so much good. 

“ Now you see it will not be very amusing for Hilda, but 
besides Madge, there will be my nephew, Marmaduke 
Lemarchant, who is a dear good fellow as you know. His 
father and his mother have seen the mistake of sending him 
into the army, which is not at all a safe career for any young 
man, but they have at last persuaded him to live at home, 
which is the proper place for the eldest son. I don’t want 
to say anything unkind about Madge, and I daresay it 
wouldn’t do any harm if she and Hilda did make friends. 
We shall expect Hilda to arrive at Skipton by the four 
o’clock train, unless you write to the contrary, and remember 
she must change at Crowby. 

“ Your affectionate sister-in-law, 

“ Helen Riversdale.” 

If Madge could have known that her mother-in-law thought 
it necessary to warn Mrs. Arthur of her corrupting presence 
at Skipton, how amused yet how angry she would have been. 
And yet Mrs. Arthur did, in fact, take it so seriously that it 
wa^ touch and go during that half-hour of reflection whether 
Hilda was or was not to be allowed to go to Skipton. As 
there would be no ball this week and Mrs. George would be 
there, might it not be better to put off the visit until a little 
later in the year ? 

Now, neither of these good ladies held a bad opinion of 
what the world would call Madge’s character. They would 
both have been shocked if any scandalous interpretation had 
been put on their disapproval of her ways and her manners ; 
and Mrs. Arthur at least had soon become sincerely com- 
passionate towards the poor little woman, for she had no 
maternal delusions on the subject of George’s domestic life. 
Still, abstract sympathy was one thing ; to throw Hilda, who 
had always had a girlish fancy for Madge, into her society, 
at a time when she was most open to influence, was another. 


26 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Janet would of all things have disliked her girl to adopt the 
standards of a set in which she, in her old-fashioned way, 
considered social “ smartness ” to be combined with moral 
vulgarity. 

The long mental colloquy ended however in the decision 
that Hilda was to go to Skipton to join the diminished party 
which was to meet there on Monday. 

The last evening before Janet and Hilda were to part for a 
whole week was fraught with specially complicated sentiments 
and tender suffering on the mother’s part. Hilda herself 
was half surprised at the degree to which she “ minded ” the 
prospect of parting, and tried to conceal this after a youthful 
and unnecessary fashion. Janet had planned last words, little 
bits of advice, a general effort at breaking through her own 
reserve. For one great mistake in her method of education 
had of late been growing clear to her. While she had not 
maintained any intellectual reserve with Hilda, and their 
sense of humour had run in the same channels and enjoyed 
the same contrasts, she had been strictly reticent concerning 
her own feelings, the deeper sources of her life, the real con- 
solations of her widowhood and the depth of the wound in 
her heart. She had intended to speak of Arthur this evening, 
and twice, with a beating heart, she had almost said : — 
“ How much your father would have enjoyed taking you 
to come out at Skipton, darling ; ” and twice Hilda had 
prevented her, once by some little joke about Brown’s view 
of the visit, and once by a sharp sigh of regret for the ball, 
and a sudden suggestion that she should not go at all. Skip- 
ton would be too deadly dull, and Aunt Helen would expect 
her to sit bolt upright with some plain needlework when she 
wasn’t in the chapel. The collapse of the ball made it harder 
for Mrs. Arthur to invest the last evening with due dignity 
— it was spoiled as an event, a crisis in life, and she could 
not raise those final hours above the trivial. 

But when Hilda had at last gone to bed, Janet knelt down 


UNRIPE YEARS. 


27 


on the prie dieu by her bedside, and prayed with a fervour 
perhaps as great as if she had actually known that the child 
was leaving her for many weeks instead of a few days, and 
was to see a good deal more of life in those weeks than her 
mother had done in as many years. On the wall above her 
head, and just below a large crucifix, there hung a little letter 
in a black frame. It had been written to congratulate Hilda’s 
parents on her birth, which had taken place on the Feast of 
the Transfiguration, and it held in a few words all that Janet 
prayed for, for her only child. 

“I earnestly pray,” wrote Father Newman, “that the 
festival on which she was born may overshadow her all 
through her life, and that she may find it ‘ good to be here,” 
till that time of blessed transfiguration when she will find 
from experience that it is better to be in heaven.” 


CHAPTER III. 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 

On the same Monday — a bright February morning — on 
which Hilda started for Skipton, Marmaduke Lemarchant 
was leaning back in a smoking carriage of a train going 
south from Carlisle. His deeply sunburnt, regular features 
had a military look. His whole bearing produced an effect 
of strength, both moral and physical. He saw with great 
satisfaction that, as he got nearer to Crowby Junction, he 
was leaving behind the frozen snow that had covered the 
country round his Lancashire home. Some good days with 
the hounds at Skipton, which lay in one of the best hunting 
•districts in England, was a fascinating prospect after seven 
winters in India. His jolliest recollections of winters in the 
past had been the hunting days spent with Uncle George 
Riversdale. 

When the train reached Crowby, the sleepy little country 
Junction was almost empty, and a porter hurried up as if 
glad of occupation. He recognised Marmaduke and said 
that he supposed he must be for the Skipton line. 

“ Hullo, Timmins,” said Marmaduke, “ how are you ? I 
thought I didn’t see you at Skipton when I passed through 
in the summer. Will you take out my things ? Tm bring- 
ing two horses and a groom by the next train.” And as a 
few minutes later they met again on the farther platform, 
Marmaduke inquired how the old man had come there. “ I 
.suppose you’ve left Skipton Station for promotion ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Timmins modestly, “but I don’t know 

(28) 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 


29 


as I’m particularly satisfied. I miss the old friends, I do, 
sir. I miss seeing Miss Mary and the squire riding by or 
coming back by train after the hunting. It’s a mistake that 
going away from home. We are glad to hear, sir, if I may 
make bold to mention it, that you’ve given up the army, sir. 
Mrs. Riversdale, she told my missis, that you was settling 
down now. She didn’t hold with young men going into the 
army. She says no one in the family had done it before. 
They used to bide at home. Why, I can recollect meself,” 
here Timmins paused a moment and waved his hand in a 
general way at the surrounding country, “ I can recollect 
soon after the squire married — there weren’t no line to 
Skipton then — he was out hunting about here on a Friday, 
and three of his brothers with him, and six of his brothers- 
in-law, Squire Lemarchant, your father, at the head of them. 
Only two of ’em all was under six foot. A finer set of men 
you could hardly see, and not one of ’em had more than a 
couple of hard-boiled eggs in his pocket, and jolly ? why,” 
the old man chuckled hilariously, “ I could hear them sing- 
ing down the lanes a couple of miles off. There was no 
need for them to be agoing into the army. Much better 
stay at home and keep quiet, sir, and get married.” 

Marmaduke smiled a little sadly. 

“ Do you ever run over to Skipton Station now, Timmins ? ” 

“Why, I was over there only yesterday, I was, and who 
should I see riding along but the squire. He holds himself 
wonderful for his years.” 

Timmins paused to take breath and then rambled on : — 

“ Wonderful upright surely ; he was riding that big brown 
mare of his that the grooms are afraid of. You know her, 
sir ? ” 

“ Queen Bess ? ” suggested Marmaduke. 

“ Aye, that’s the one. I’d almost forgotten that joke. When 
they told the squire that that mare gave more trouble than 
all the horses put together, ‘ Call her Queen Bess,’ says he. 


30 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


* she did more mischief than any other woman in England 
He will have his joke, will the squire. But, as I thought 
to myself yesterday, somehow he isn’t the same since Mr. 
George’s death. Though he called out hearty and asked for 
my missis, when I looked up at him he didn’t look hearty in 
the eyes one bit. We all must have our troubles, mustn’t 
we, sir ? Now in spite of all Mrs. Timmins and I did for 
our sons, we had our black sheep — you’d remember Bob, 
sir. Well he got into bad company down the line, but we 
felt his death all the same. But I must be off to the other 
side. I’ll be back for the Skipton train.” 

And he shuffled off, muttering uneasy apologies in his 
beard, for his too plain speaking on family matters. 

The half smile in Marmaduke’s dark eyes died away as the 
old man left him. 

“ I’m afraid he is right. They can’t forget that scamp 
George. It will spoil even the hunting season to his father.” 

He sighed impatiently, and proceeded to light a cigarette. 

“ No time for a cigar,” he thought, “ only two minutes 
before Madge’s train is due.” 

He turned to stroll along the ash footpath at the end of 
the platform. 

“ And so Timmins kindly reports the approbation of 
Skipton and its opinion of my future,” he mused. “ I am 
to be quiet and settle down and keep to the old ways. Hunt 
whenever I can, say my prayers, fast and abstain, and keep 
as good and as jolly as my uncles and great-uncles before me. 
They were good enough, and jolly enough, but as to serving 
their country or being of use in the world, — good Lord ! 
Dear old chaps, it never entered their heads. A man might 
be called to be a priest or he had duties if he had a property 
or a wife and family, but to go and look for something to 
do was entirely superfluous as well as rather infra dig. for a 
man of birth.” 

He sighed and went on : — 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 


31 


“ So now I am quite the good boy, giving up the army 
and its sinful ways, and Timmins pats me on the back. 
While, hang it all, what wouldn’t I give to be with the 
regiment again. But it is no use. ‘ Booty, dooty,’ as Ser- 
geant Macalister told me, when he couldn’t walk straight, 

‘ takes one man one way and another t’other way.’ But at 
one thing I draw the line. I cannot marry to please 
Timmins or anybody else. I am pretty sure that Aunt 
Helen meant me for some young lady who was to have been 
at Skipton for the ball. We have escaped each other this 
time. One must make the best of life, and there’s no doubt 
the frost here has broken. Be hanged to old Timmins and 
all the stupid things he has made me think of.” 

Before Marmaduke had finished his cigarette and before he 
had thrown off the fit of musing which Timmins had induced, 
some bustle on a farther platform announced the train from the 
South. He went on with his walk without distraction, until 
he perceived that a tall young lady with a maid had crossed 
over to the Skipton side of the station, and was also walking 
up and down, under cover. As he came to the end of the 
pathway, she reached the end of the stone flags and their 
eyes met for a second before they turned their backs on each 
other. 

“ Pretty,” he reflected, “ though not smart.” 

Yet he quickened his step until, at the end of the path, he 
might turn round naturally. She also had turned, and was 
now standing at the little book-stall, too far off for him to 
see her properly ; but the effect was good at a distance. She * 
was tall, and when she moved on he noticed that she walked 
well. She wore a long red cloak and a high black hat of gipsy 
shape ; her hair blew in short curls about her face ; there 
seemed to him something familiar in the irregular features. 
As he drew nearer, recognition was unmistakable in her dark 
brown eyes — but eyes not so dark as his own, for they had a 
golden light in them. She held out her hand. 


32 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Don’t you know me, Cousin Marmaduke ? ” she asked 
hesitatingly. 

“ Hilda, of course,” he cried. 

But it was a little disappointing. Here was no interest- 
ing stranger, but only one of the family, whom he had 
known as a child. There was nothing to carry for her but 
two books. He took these, and walked along the ash path 
by her side. 

“ What heavy books ! ” he exclaimed. “ What are they ? 
Good heavens, Jevon’s Logic and Hutton’s Essays on 
Literature. If this is your idea of reading on a journey, 
what must your lessons be ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m not in the schoolroom,” said Hilda hastily, and 
with a little air of dignity; “but I want to do the Cambridge 
Local. Of course I can’t go to Newnham because of mother, 
but it is horrid not to have a profession, isn’t it ? ” 

Hilda’s tongue was set working by shyness, not by self- 
possession, but she spoke out of the fulness of her heart. 

Marmaduke laughed. This seemed to him like a parody 
of his own feelings. Hilda looked offended. 

“ Hilda,” he said, “ you must allow that to have seen you 
last in a brown holland pinafore, with sticky fingers, and 
then to meet you grown up, travelling with your maid, as if 
you were accustomed to knocking about Europe, and to be 
told that you want a profession, might fairly produce a 
smile.” 

Hilda laughed as though she had suddenly discovered a 
good joke. 

“ It was an odd greeting,” she said, “ after eight years. 
But the sticky fingers are a base calumny.” 

After that they asked and answered various questions 
about their respective families. Presently Hilda said : — 

“ I suppose you are coming to Skipton ”. 

“ Yes, and Mrs. George too, and Mark Fieldes. Our party 
has dwindled down to that.” 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 


33 


“Mark Fieldes, the author?*’ cried Hilda; “what fun. 
That’s what I’m really pining for, to meet out-of-the-way 
clever men like Mark Fieldes. You know mother used to 
know all the clever men in London, and I’ve never seen 
more than one alive.” 

“ Have you seen many dead ? ” inquired Marmaduke. 

“No, but that I can’t complain of. And I’ve seen more than 
one buried in Westminster Abbey. I have read the Phantas- 
magoria of Phidias f she went on quickly, “ and I have 
often wished to meet Mr. Fieldes, but I never imagined it 
would be at Skipton-le-Grange. How do they know him ? ” 

“ It seems that George, not long before he died, met Mr. 
Fieldes at Homburg, and gave him a vague invitation to 
Skipton, a fact which he has somehow made known to them, 
and he is to arrive to-day.” 

“ I wonder how he will acclimatise himself.” 

Marmaduke glanced with amusement at Hilda’s sarcastic 
little mouth, but she did not pursue the subject. Her mind 
wandered to the coming Madge, the widow of George Rivers- 
dale. 

“ Have you seen Madge lately ? We haven’t met her for 
ages. I used to think her so fascinating, she was quite my 
romance, but I feel very shy about meeting her now. You 
know,” she hesitated, “ I have not seen her since George 
died. I suppose she will be dreadfully changed. Have you 
seen her ? ” 

“ Yes, we met in the Highlands soon after I got home.” 

“ Was it very dreadful ? I mean did she seem to be 
broken-hearted — as — as mother was ? ” 

Hilda stopped speaking, and blushed a little as she looked 
into his face. 

“ I don’t quite know,” said Marmaduke evasively; “ Madge 
is not much changed outwardly — but, see, the train from 
London is in, and I ought to meet her now.” 

“ I wonder if anybody besides Hilda can expect poor little 

3 


34 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Madge to be a broken-hearted widow,” he muttered, as he 
hurried forward. “ Still it is to be hoped that she will come 
here in mourning, as she will be staying with his people.” 

But before Marmaduke could get across to the London 
train, a small figure, in a wonderful greatcoat of fawn- 
coloured cloth, with a sable cloak over one arm, had reached 
the luggage van, and was giving directions in the softest of 
voices to an attentive porter. 

“ No, thank you, Mr. Fieldes, I always see to my own 
boxes, my maid is far too stupid. Yes, the Skipton plat- 
form,” and the porter hurried away with the enormous trunks. 
“ Can I help with your luggage, Mr. Fieldes ? ” in a still 
meeker voice. “ Ah, Marmaduke, how d’ye do ? Let us 
come, we cross over, don’t we ? So that is Hilda, so grown 
up and so badly dressed. Dear Hilda ! ” She hurried 
forward and shook Hilda’s long fingers in a direct masculine 
way. ‘‘ Mr. Fieldes has so very many cases for his purple 
and fine linen that he ought to bring a servant, but we won’t 
miss the train, will we, Hilda ? ” and with an air of sisterly 
camaraderie Madge hurried Hilda along. It was not until 
they were seated in the carriage of the Skipton-bound train 
that they were joined by Mr. Fieldes, somewhat out of 
breath. 

He was tall, taller than Marmaduke, but with a figure not 
well put together, and stooping, rounded shoulders. His 
dress was elaborate, but not well put on, and he was known 
to be the despair of a very excellent tailor. 

Madge had instantly settled herself, with all possible 
regard to comfort, muffled in her large sable cloak, in a 
corner of the carriage, and was now silently pufflng delicate 
smoke-wreaths from a cigarette, while she looked Hilda 
comprehensively over. A moment later she said aloud, in 
a tone of mild surprise : — 

“ No cigarette, Hilda? Then I must amuse you in other 
ways. Mr. Fieldes, there you are at last, you and my cousin 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 


35 


Miss Riversdale are to know and respect each other. Re- 
markable minds, I believe, both ; at least you have written 
most things, and Hilda has read all the others.” 

“ This is a trying introduction, and if acquaintance 
prospers on it we shall not have to thank Mrs. Riversdale,” 
said Fieldes, with a half-melancholy, half-humorous smile 
at Hilda. 

Mark Fieldes could not be called a striking figure of a 
man ; but his head, if far from beautiful, was not devoid of 
interest. The forehead was broad and low, and rather too 
large for the rest of the face. The eyes varied constantly 
from a torpid state of reflection to a twinkling eager gaze. 
The interest of the face lay not so much in its structure 
(the lower part being weak and too wide) as in its pro- 
blematic character. It could, for a few seconds, be positively 
impressive : it could be vulgar. The eyes might look 
impertinent or awestruck, reverential or shallow, almost at 
the same moment. Poor Fieldes, it showed him too plainly 
to the unfriendly. He was too sensitive to all the influences 
about him ; there was little that he did not see or feel. 
But it is a complicated world, and no compound of earthly 
clay is capable of recording an infinite number of im- 
pressions. 

The present was a comparatively simple moment in his 
mental history. He was feeling his own clumsiness with 
regard to his luggage ; he was envying Madge’s quick 
business-like ways ; he was annoyed by her amusement at 
his little distress ; he was anxiously, half-jealously scanning 
the handsome, active Marmaduke ; he was admiring Hilda, 
idealising her as the home girl, innocent, natural, but in 
her whole self eminently aristocratic ; he was wondering if 
she had any money ; he was gazing with a sense of quiet 
refreshment at the cold chaste beauty of the wintry sunset ; 
he was thinking that his own coat was of a better cut than 
Marmaduke’s ; and last and almost most vivid in the medley. 


36 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


were his wonder and interest in a figure he had espied on 
the platform. 

“ Did you see the monk ? ” he exclaimed immediately. 
“ What a face ! and the dress all completely white. Could 
renunciation wear a more exquisite appearance ? What a 
glorious habit, yet what a hideous life.” 

Hilda looked amused, but Madge was irritated by this 
enthusiasm. 

“ I know who he is,” she said, “ and he is a great bore. 
I do hope he is not coming to Skipton. As for the glory of 
the habit, it isn’t over fresh when you are close to it. He 
is most tiresome. Do you remember, Hilda, how he scolded 
me about my maid waiting up for me that time at your 
mother’s house ? It was most impertinent.” 

“ And he rebuked me for want of humility because I would 
not play to him. But don’t you think, Madge, there is 
something striking about him in his whole ” 

“ Personality ? ” suggested Fieldes ; “ but the personality 
of the unwashed is easier to appreciate from a distance — 
at least, Mrs. Riversdale thinks so. Still he certainly was 
picturesque, sitting on a ‘ returned empty ’ in the midst of 
the bustle, reading his Office, with his white hood half over 
his face, and his white beard reaching his leather belt. 
There was an aloofness, an unconsciousness about him in 
the midst of you all ; it was as if a Fra Angelico had been 
hung in the Salon. He made me quite forget the shape of 
my portmanteaus.” 

“ I only wish he would stay on his empty, and not come 
to be petted and fed up at Skipton. I would never have 
come if I had thought there was a chance of his being there. 
My mother-in-law is intolerable with a pet monk.” 

Madge was evidently out of temper ; and as she was the 
ruling influence of the moment they all became as silent as 
Marmaduke, who had been reading his evening paper the 
while. Presently he offered Madge the paper. 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 


37 


“ Is there anything in it ? ” she asked. 

“ More trouble with the Boers — oh, and there’s the account 
of Lord V ’s wedding.” 

“ It was to be very gorgeous,” said Mark. “ They said 
the roses from Cannes almost hid the chancel.” 

“ The garlands measured more than a mile,” said Madge, 

“ and Miss B had them picked to pieces four times. 

They had to wire to all the flower shops in London to make 
up the ones they spoilt. I had a letter from Cecilia about 
the preparations. She was to be a bridesmaid, you know.” 

“ The jewels were simply gorgeous,” added Mark. 

“ Yes, but all that has been exaggerated,” said Madge in 
a tone of superior information ; “ I don’t believe the pearls 
are anything like the size the papers make out. Cecilia 
says he gave her a bunch of orchids and a box of bon-bons 
every morning during their engagement,” continued Madge 
in a tone of admiration. 

“ And I suppose she will pay the bill for them afterwards,” 
observed Mark. 

“ Yes,” said Madge, “ but she won’t notice it. She could 
pay for anything, happy girl. When I first met her it was 
very different. I remember I was bored at being introduced. 
Isn’t it strange, to think that that little pale thing we used 
to see about, whom nobody thought anything of, is to have 
all the happiness this world can give ? ” Madge sighed 
meditatively. 

“ Is she much in love with him ? ” came in Hilda’s shy 
voice. 

Mark looked at her approvingly. 

“ Oh, of course,” said Madge, “ who wouldn’t be ? And 
the place is so beautiful, it only wants her money to do it up.” 

“ Did you see that the whole of the wedding breakfast was 
cooked in Paris and sent over hot ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Madge, “ it was all perfectly done, of course 
— she is the luckiest woman I know.” 


38 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ There is only one other marriage that could beat it in 
England,” said Mark, “and in the case I mean the man will 
be able to give jewels, orchids and all himself.” 

“ You mean Bellasis,” said Madge quickly, and she flushed 
a little. 

“ Yes,” said Mark in a knowing voice ; “ I wonder if 
anybody whispered to Miss Cecilia Rupert at the wedding 
* Happy bridesmaid make a happy bride ’ ! ” 

“ Why should they say that to Cecilia ? ” asked Madge in 
a cold distant voice, looking away from Mark. 

Mark answered eagerly. 

“ Why, surely you must have heard, must have noticed — 
I never saw anything so obvious as the flirtation between 
Lord Bellasis and Cecilia Rupert.” 

“ I hear a good many foolish things,” said Madge, “but 
I don’t notice them. I was at Bellasis Castle with her, and 
I am sure nobody could have supposed he meant anything 
at all. Nobody there thought so, and where have you been 
lately ? Anybody in London would have told you that he 
has quite changed since then, and has not shown her any 
more attentions at all.” 

Madge’s voice was so cross that Mark did not venture to 
point out the Celtic want of logic in her last speech. There 
was an awkward silence. Hilda broke it, observing in a 
thoughtful tone to Mark : — 

“ I wonder if people who have orchids and bon-bons every 
day get very tired of life”. 

“ Of course they do,” said Mark, turning towards her with 
quick sympathy, “ it is those who have had the best of life 
who generally loathe it most, or say they do ; but,” speaking 
to Madge, “ I sometimes doubt the extent of that loathing.” 

He had not in the least understood what Hilda meant this 
time, and she was still more sorry she had expressed her 
little feeling when Madge remarked in a cross voice : — 

“ Of course it is all nonsense when they say that — but 


MEETING AT A JUNCTION. 39 

people like to think they believe them. It makes the grapes 
seem really sour.” 

After this, conversation lapsed, and Madge threw away 
the end of her cigarette, leaned her head back against the 
sable cloak and let her eyelids close. Hilda fancied that she 
looked sad and tired. 

Madge’s dress, a most successful harmony of grey, white, 
fawn and black, quite satisfied Mark that she was still in half- 
mourning. Hilda had expected the full romance of weeds, 
and this most becoming stage of a young widow’s appear- 
ance (in the twilight tints open to many interpretations) 
appeared to her no mourning at all. It had been a severe 
shock. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 

The same clear wintry sunshine which shone upon Crowby 
Junction also lighted up the windows of Skipton-le-Grange. 
The house was big, ugly and prosperous in appearance. It 
presented large surfaces of flat walls, covered with stucco, and 
many sash windows that neither intruded nor receded, but 
kept as closely as possible to the wall surface. But in a fit 
of remorse, or else in the spirit of adding insult to his un- 
fortunate creation, the architect had placed classical vases 
of stone at the corners of the square building. There was 
nothing remarkable in the house itself ; but it stood boldly 
out in the midst of an exquisitely timbered park, the home 
of a race that had dwelt there for 400 years. And in those 
years the Riversdales had been among the victims of a 
system of proscriptive legislation so severe as to appear to 
us now hardly credible. 

In the sixteenth century one Riversdale had been hanged, 
drawn and quartered, and a second imprisoned for life in a 
jail where life could only be of the shortest, for the criminal 
offences of harbouring priests and having Mass celebrated at 
Skipton-le-Grange. In the seventeenth century the family 
had gone through all the ups and downs, all the hopes and 
disappointments that befel Catholics in England. They 
had fought loyally for King Charles ; and had hoped not 
only that the king should enjoy his own again, but that his 
restoration would bring a general toleration. Such dreams 
were dissipated by the success of Puritanism. In the early 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


41 


years of Charles II. hope rose for a moment still higher, and 
was not finally extinguished until James II., the greatest 
enemy of his own religion in the event, came to the throne. 
Then after James had sunk from the eminence which proved 
so disastrous to those he wished to help, the darkness 
thickened ; and the Riversdales and many other Catholic 
families with them, became as those who have no hope in 
this world. 

In the “ Catholic Committee,” whose strenuous efforts at 
last won for English Catholics a measure of partial relief in 
1778, there had been a Riversdale, who died soon after the 
Relief Act was passed, and was succeeded by his son, the 
builder of the present house at Skipton. This Riversdale 
built the new house as a young man, before the final repeal 
of the penal laws in 1791. The old house which he pulled 
down had dated back to the first days of Henry VIII. 
During the centuries that followed Catholics did not build 
family mansions, and the beauties of Elizabethan and Jaco- 
bean architecture were not for the persecuted. 

So when William Riversdale built him a house which 
should take its place in size and importance with the houses 
of the county magnates, he had fallen upon a bad moment in 
the history of English architecture. He was not dissatisfied 
with it himself. The bigness of it, the boldness of its win- 
dows, the classical ornaments, the wide sweep of its carriage- 
drive, preserved no trace of the old house, with its loophole 
windows, its secret chapel, its hiding-places, its high hedges 
that came close up to the walls. But William Riversdale 
had no love for such reminders of former thraldom. The 
Relief Act of 1778 had marked a distinct growth of the tolerant 
disposition of Englishmen towards Catholics. A naturally 
high-spirited young man, he had not only been educated, like 
other Catholics, in France, but after his father’s death, when 
he was only fifteen, he had passed his holidays with a con- 
nection of the family — a French archbishop, who was his 


42 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


godfather. As a young man of nineteen he had been received 
at court by Louis XVI. and had mixed with the best French 
society. When he came to England in 1784 he little realised 
the social proscription or the penal legislation which still had 
so practical an effect on the life of his co-religionists. Fully 
conscious of the family history and position he meant to take 
his place as a county magnate. He confidently reckoned 
on the opportunities which would soon be afforded by the 
further repeal of the penal laws. He was too sanguine, and 
a reaction followed. The remains of the old chains soon 
made themselves felt, and they galled him. Events did not 
move fast enough ; every year brought some rough reminder 
of the social and legal disabilities under which as a Catholic 
he necessarily laboured. The first time he attended quarter 
sessions he was startled at hearing the officer announce that 
he had “ made diligent search for Papists ”. At a dinner 
party the lord-lieutenant of the county, a bigoted Pro- 
testant, had nearly left the company on finding a Papist to 
be present, and Riversdale had been deeply hurt at hearing 
his host apologise in a low tone, and promise that such a 
thing should not happen again. Such events soon induced 
a sullen and proud resentment ; and before his real oppor- 
tunity arrived, he had retired into his shell and settled 
down in the groove in which his father had lived before 
him. 

The turning point came in 1788. His county neighbours 
were beginning to see that Riversdale meant to take up a 
position at which his father had never aimed, and some of 
them did not like it. He had a quarrel with an acquaint- 
ance in the hunting-field, and the man was mean enough to 
remind him that the splendid animal he rode was only his 
on sufferance, as the law still obliged a Catholic to give his 
horse to anybody who offered him £5 in exchange. Rivers- 
dale had blustered, and the man had actually at last insisted 
on proving his rights, to the great disgust of the hunting-field 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


43 


it is true. Mr. Riversdale had walked home and never 
hunted again.^ 

Such were the memories in which his grandson, the 
present owner of Skipton, had been educated. Things had 
changed much, needless to say, in the lifetime of the twa 
generations. Catholics had, to a great extent, won their 
position socially and in the professions, and were on good 
terms with their immediate neighbours. 

Their traditions and their way of life, however, bore many 
traces of their past history. The persecuted had come, in 
many cases, to idealise the enforced seclusion and inaction 
of penal days. Politics were too dangerous, and the army 
and navy soul-imperilling professions — in which moreover 
Catholics were long debarred from the higher grades. A 
curious, hardly expressed tradition regarded idleness even in 
the younger sons as both virtuous and aristocratic. This was 
partly due no doubt to the fact that in the last century trade, 
which was then looked upon as a shop-keeping sort of 
occupation, was almost the only way in which a Catholic 
could expect to make a fortune. 

It was a cause of surprise to such converts as Mrs. Arthur 
Riversdale to find the Catholic families so secluded and so 
inactive ; and still more to find them satisfied and self- 
contented in their seclusion. That many admirable Catholic 
country squires and upright land-agents and men of business, 
were still produced by the old regime^ and that there was a 
remarkably high standard of piety and purity of manners 
among their women, all this was only to be expected as the 
fruit of Catholicism. But surely, the converts argued, it 
was no compliment to the strengthening power of their 
religion that its adherents should be afraid of contact with 
the national life, in which others took their part without 
injury. This however is happily a controversy that need 

'An incident almost identical with that described in the text happened 
to the grandfather of the late Lord Arundell of Wardour. 


44 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


not now be dwelt upon ; — the generation of Marmaduke 
Lemarchant having decided it (with a few exceptions) for 
themselves. 

Nobody could be a day at Skipton without understanding 
something of the character of its master. The tall, upright, 
broad-chested, well-dressed old squire had a charm that was 
almost hard upon his wife. Mrs. Riversdale might have 
shone as the wife of an ill-tempered, exacting man, for she 
was really a good woman. But there was such a pervading 
sweetness in the personality of the Squire of Skipton that, 
unconsciously to himself, he became the centre on which 
all things turned. Not that the mind that ruled the house 
was an active one. He had accepted views as well as acres 
as a heritage from his forefathers, and from them he had 
received one tendency of a persecuted race, the inclination 
to live and let live in peace. 

He was the sort of man who helps to perpetuate a bad 
or useless system of education by his very excellence of 
character and manner of life. Men would say that he was 
a type produced by the good old days. It would be argued 
among his connections that an education in no sense national, 
in private schools and without university advantages, had 
made such men as old George Riversdale, and what could 
you wish for more ? 

He was a strong man, strong in will, large in affections, 
just in personal judgments ; a fox-hunter who made an 
hour’s meditation every morning, and a powerful landlord who 
carried soup to bedridden old women. It was an illustration 
of the squire’s character that to forgive the man who had shot 
a fox cost him a struggle which could only be successful 
when it was necessary to prepare for confession, and it was 
felt in the family to be a serious matter if a fox had been 
shot near one of the eight great feast days. 

Eight times a year Mr. Riversdale went to the sacraments. 
No one ever supposed that it meant want of piety — all knew 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


45 


that it was rather intensity of reverence — which prevented 
him from going more often to communion. Moreover, such 
had been the custom of his father. 

The squire and his daughter were returning from the 
hunting-field in the afternoon on which they were expecting^ 
Madge and their other guests. They had had a good though 
a short day with the hounds. They walked their horses 
slowly through Skipton Park between the great oaks, sun 
and shadow playing on the two figures and the mud-sprinkled 
horses. 

Mary was not very tall, but her figure was well propor- 
tioned, and she never looked better than when in the saddle. 
The small amount of feminine vanity in her composition was 
chiefly expended on her hunting attire. It seemed as neces- 
sary to be smart and well groomed herself, as it was necessary 
to have her mare at its best also. Whether Mary was to be 
well groomed in order to show off the animal, or the animal 
be well groomed to show off Mary, it would be diflicult to 
say, but probably the former. It was still the fashion to 
wear tall hats and tight-fitting habits, and happily no loose 
coat hid the outlines of Mary’s well-defined figure. 

They had been discussing the events of the day in the 
field, and the girl’s clear, rather loud laugh had rung out 
joyously. The old squire had been enjoying a joke, and hia 
handsome features were lit with a sunny smile. The man’s 
tall broad-shouldered figure was thrown back a little, as he 
turned to catch her appreciation of the story. At that 
moment the clock struck four, and the squire unconsciously 
brought his horse to a stand. 

“ Four o’clock,” he said, and mechanically pulled out his 
large hunting watch ; “ Madge will be here in a few minutes 
now.” 

A cloud came over his face, and he stooped a little as 
though some weight had descended upon him. 


46 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Mary’s sensitive observation of the loved face had told her 
in the morning that her father was suffering from gloomy 
thoughts. She had rejoiced to see that he had thrown them 
off almost as soon as he had mounted his horse. But now 
they were not even at home again ; they had not half 
finished the discussion of the day’s sport, and yet the cloud 
had reappeared. 

She gave a little impatient sigh. Were their brightest 
days always to be clouded now ? It was very “ young ” to 
feel this sort of surprise in pain ; it pointed to the record 
of a happy youth. A little superstitious feeiing grew upon 
her in the silence that followed, an ominous ill-defined sen- 
sation of the uncertainty of the brightness of the moment 
before. She gathered herself together ; this was absurd. 

Other suns would shine, and there would be other days 
out hunting with her father. Father would not always be 
thinking about George ; and surely, although George was 
dead, it was right to be happy sometimes. But a deep sigh 
of self-reproach interrupted this line of thought, and she 
glanced up in sympathy at the face above her. 

For a moment Mr. Riversdale met her eyes with a look of 
inquiry, as though he wondered whether her sigh answered 
with understanding to his melancholy. The relations be- 
tween the two were very simple ; and it was with great 
difficulty that the father refrained from saying anything that 
was in his thoughts to the daughter. Happily the old man’s 
mind was so full of things simple, holy and of good repute, 
that nothing in this freedom of intercourse was dangerous for 
Mary. He was about to speak now, when something checked 
him. The impulse to confide in her and the difficulty of 
expressing what he had to say, struggled in him. He re- 
mained silent, and Mary was surprised to see him turn from 
her with an actual blush heightening the deep colour on the 
weather-hardened face — a thing she had never seen there 
before. 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


47 


Mr. Riversdale had intended to tell her gently something 
of George’s past. He had thought it his duty to win her 
sympathy for George’s widow. He feared that he should 
receive little help from his wife in his efforts at kindness to 
his daughter-in-law during her visit to Skipton. He felt 
himself that, as George’s parents, they owed reparation to 
Madge. George’s life had been an insult to her. He had 
been cruel to her even before he left her. Then, too, Mr. 
Riversdale knew that her character was weak, and he feared 
the danger of worldly and irreligious companionship among 
her London friends. For every reason he wished to make 
Skipton pleasant and attractive to her. 

But to Mrs. Riversdale Madge was a reminder of facts 
in the life of the dead son whom she had idolised — facts 
which she angrily refused to face. For her George’s widow 
was the undying witness to the family tragedy. How then 
could Madge be anything but odious to Mrs. Riversdale ? 
The squire wished to convey to Mary something of the true 
state of the case. But when he tried to frame the words that 
might tell her something of the last years of George’s life, 
he found it impossible. To see that fair, sensitive, childlike 
face lose its homely peacefulness and serenity would be un- 
bearable. 

Very slowly did they walk their horses as the sunshine 
faded and they drew nearer to the house. They presently 
came to the carriage-drive, and absorbed in their own thoughts 
hardly saw a man walking very near to them. 

Mark Fieldes had felt the necessity for exercise, and he 
had asked Madge to put him down at the lodge gates. He 
had walked round the park by mistake, instead of across it, 
and had at last found himself at the lodge on the opposite 
side. After that he had prudently kept to the road. He had 
not gone far before the two riders emerged upon it from 
between the trees. He looked up at them with quick 
appreciation. 


48 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Any stranger might have been struck by the picture they 
presented. Mr. Riversdale was perhaps more handsome than 
his daughter, but there was something very winning in the fair 
face that was looking up at her father’s. There was perfect 
horsemanship in her attitude, and in the way she guided the 
mare across some rough ground by the roadside. Fieldes saw 
a picture of prosperity in the bright-coated squire and his 
daughter on their beautiful horses, but he saw too the cloud 
on the man’s face and , its sympathetic shadow on the 
girl’s. 

The road in front of them led straight to Skipton-le-Grange, 
and on this side of the house stood out the chapel in all its 
barn-like ugliness. It might have been taken for a Methodist 
chapel but for two things, the cross that was raised over a 
tiny belfry, and the gleam of the sanctuary lamp with its 
peculiar still radiance shining through the coloured glass of 
the window. 

Either from habit or from the sense of sadness that was 
oppressing her, Mary looked with a longing expression at that 
faint light. Fieldes thought that her lips moved. It did not 
occur to him until afterwards that she was praying. But he 
saw a look on the face which came back to him in later years, 
a look full of the “ light that never was on sea or land ” ; a 
something of spiritual intensity, which stayed with him 
through life connected with the image of Mary Riversdale. 
This he always said was the face that had brought to him 
the clearest glimpse of the “divine in the human ”. 

How much the walk in the crisp air, the spurt to the 
imagination given by a country that had not been seen before, 
his artistic pleasure in the two figures, the youth and fairness 
of the girl, had their share in the impression it is difficult to 
say. But even when only a few days later the look on the 
girl’s face became to him difficult to understand, when the 
light seemed deadened, and the fine sensitiveness to have 
turned to an oppressed and puzzled suffering, Fieldes never 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 49 

felt that that first impression had been weakened. Long 
after he said to a friend in London : — 

“ I believe in angels. I once saw one, so how can I doubt 
them ? She appeared to me in a riding habit, wearing a tall 
hat.” 

Fieldes felt very awkward, even while he looked at the 
two figures in front of him — so awkward that he actually 
took to flight, turned round and hid himself behind a large 
tree. This was not well managed, and Mary’s horse started, 
as Fieldes made a rustling among the dead branches. 

“ Father, I thought I saw a man and now he is gone.” 

“ It must have been fancy,” said Riversdale, rousing him- 
self. “ If we go slowly we shall just have time to finish the 
rosary. I don’t hear the carriage-wheels yet.” 

He pulled out a string of beads and he and Mary began to 
recite prayers in rapid low tones. 

When the squire and Mary had trotted up to the front 
door and dismounted, they were told that Mrs. George and 
Miss Hilda Riversdale were in the drawing-room. The 
squire hastened across the hall closely followed by Mary. 

It would be difficult to exaggerate the moral discomfort of 
the group they found awaiting them. Fieldes, as we know, 
had not yet reached the house. Marmaduke had not come 
in the carriage. There was nobody but Hilda, who was 
still regarded as a child by them both, to break the awkward- 
ness of the meeting between George’s adoring mother and 
the widow who had not even kept the externals of mourning 
for two short years. They had kissed with studious polite- 
ness, had “ inquired after each other’s good health and ex- 
changed the weather,” when Mrs. Riversdale proceeded to 
ask if they had driven Father Clement to the priest’s house 
before coming on to the hall. 

“ Father Clement ! ” exclaimed Madge with surprise ; “ are 
you expecting him ? ” 

Hilda gave a little start. 


4 


50 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Surely you saw him, he was to come by this train ; I 
have never known him miss a train, or alter his plans with- 
out necessity.” 

The older lady’s voice betrayed suspicion. 

“ Perhaps he has come after all,” said Madge, who was 
standing with her back to the fire. “ Do you remember, 
Hilda, Mr. Fieldes’ excitement about some monk at 
Crowby Junction ? ” 

Hilda did remember, but she recollected also that she had 
seen him again at the Skipton Station, and had asked 
Madge a little nervously if they ought not to suggest to him 
to come in the carriage. She had received no answer, but 
it now appeared that Madge had not heard her speak. 

“ It was a pity we did not know he was coming,” Madge 
said, after a moment’s pause, in a voice betraying an in- 
dication of temper, hitherto studiously veiled by politeness. 

“Then,” said Mrs. Riversdale, sitting if possible a little 
more upright than usual in her large hard tapestried chair, 
“ then he will come in the cart with your maid and the 
luggage.” 

Her voice spoke volumes of indignation. She had been 
prepared, under protest, to endure with Christian courtesy 
Madge’s presence in the house, though convinced that she 
had been the undoing of George ; but temper can bear 
crimes better than trifles. 

When Mr. Riversdale came into the room, he broke the 
silence that had followed this remark. He glanced hurriedly 
across the large space, with its stiff groups of furniture, to 
the ample person of his wife. There was something almost 
amusing in the simplicity of the anxiety with which he 
looked from one woman to the other, from the large and 
now stern face of the stately hostess, in her ample garniture 
of rich silk and heavy crape trimmings, to the tiny figure on 
the hearthrug, in its tight-fitting tailor-made costume of 
black and white check ; the hands, sparkling with rings. 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


51 


held out to the warmth behind her, the smartly shod little 
feet planted firmly somewhat apart. The small face was 
expressive of temper. He hardly saw Hilda, who was 
sitting away from the other two, flushed and uncomfortable. 

As Madge moved forward to meet her father-in-law, with 
a heightened colour, the look of ill-temper was lost in some 
different but still embarrassing emotion. 

Mr. Riversdale went straight to her, put his big arm about 
her, stooped down and kissed her. If she had wanted to 
resist, it would have been impossible, but apparently this 
was not what she wanted. No sooner had he raised his 
head than she made a bird-like spring in his direction, and 
imprinted a little kiss on the ruddy cheek. 

“ Well,” he said with resolute cordiality to his wife, “ so 
here she is — well, well,” and he sighed as he turned round 
to look for Hilda. 

Meantime Mary had welcomed Madge with a shy kiss, 
which seemed almost unnoticed by its recipient. 

“ Had a good day ? ” asked Madge. 

Mary was about to recount the features of the day, a very 
safe subject, when the squire, after welcoming Hilda, and 
adding due inquiries for her mother, repeated his wife’s 
question — Where was Father Clement ? Had he gone at 
once to the priest’s house, where he was expected to make 
some days’ stay ? Mr. Riversdale supposed he had refused 
to come in to tea. 

“ He is coming up with the maids and the boxes,” began 
Mrs. Riversdale. 

“ We did not see him at the station,” said Madge hurriedly, 
raising innocent grey eyes to the squire’s face. am so 
sorry.” 

It was not Mr. Riversdale’s habit to dwell on trifles. 

“ Dear, that’s tiresome, but what’s done can’t be undone. 
But where’s Marmaduke and where’s Mr. What’s-his- 
Name ? ” 


52 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


At the same moment the butler supplied the name and 
Fieldes followed him into the room. 

Mark Fieldes was received with the dignified cordiality 
which was never wanting in the welcome of a visitor to 
Skipton. Certainly during the tea-drinking that followed 
he could not complain of neglect. His host, his hostess and 
Mrs. George all seemed to wish to talk to him, and htf^ once 
caught Hilda’s large eyes furtively examining the distin- 
guished author. Only Mary seemed to be entirely occupied 
in the matter of tea and eatables. 

Marmaduke did not appear until after the guests had been 
shown to their rooms, as he had been kept at the station 
waiting for the arrival of his two hunters by the next train. 
He was able to console his aunt by the information that he 
had found a fly, which had conveyed Father Clement to the 
priest’s house with sufficient dignity. 

“ What a boon you are in the domestic circle,” said 
Madge gratefully, when she was next alone with Mark 
Fieldes. “ But where on earth did you learn to talk about 
poor schools and religious orders ? And may I ask how 
many convents you have haunted ? Here indeed is new 
light upon your character.” 

The dinner was somewhat dull. The squire made great 
efforts to talk to Madge, but the efforts were too apparent. 
No topic seemed to last long, and he generally passed to 
some remark addressed to the rest of the company. Marma- 
duke was not very talkative and Hilda was shy. Fieldes 
would under ordinary circumstances have saved any dinner- , 
table from dulness ; but his words were addressed mainly 
to Mrs. Riversdale, whom he took in to dinner, and were 
unusually unproductive. “ Certainly these people are not 
brilliant members of society,” he thought to himself. He 
had come prepared with subjects which he thought well 
suited to his company. But his stories and theories fell 
flat. Only once did Mrs. Riversdale respond with any 


THE HOME OF THE PERSECUTED. 


53 


animation. He was telling of a friend of his — a Catholic 
whom Mrs. Riversdale had known as a child and lost sight 
of. It was a touching love story — the girl’s father had for 
ten years refused to sanction her marriage with the man she 
loved. At last it was all made up. The father relented and 
sent for the lover, who arrived at what proved to be the 
girl’s deathbed. “ They little knew it at the time,” he 
said, “ the doctors thought her only chance lay in not know- 
ing the worst. She talked happily of the future. Death 
came suddenly and quite peacefully a few days later.” 

I think it very wrong,” said Mrs. Riversdale with em- 
phatic alertness, “ for doctors to behave in that way. The 
poor girl dies without any proper preparation for death, 
without the last sacraments, without a priest, simply to 
give her some slight chance of recovery. It is just what 
the Protestant doctor did who attended my niece Annie 
Burchall. He owned to it afterwards. They would never 
send for him again.” 

Fieldes soon found that the best chance of conversation 
was to leave it to his host and hostess to choose their own 
topics. But even this was a slow process. He exchanged 
glances more than once with Mrs. George Riversdale, in the 
course of the long pauses, when Mr. or Mrs. Riversdale 
seemed to be meaning to say something shortly. The 
remarks generally came at last in the form of isolated facts 
notified, or brief comments. 

“ How much aged Father Clement is looking — I’m sure 
you’ll think so, Madge, when you see him.” “The meet on 
Friday is at Crowby, Marmaduke.” “ I have told Harrison 
to-day to cut down that old oak in the long avenue — we tried 
to save it, but it had to go at last.” “ Charlie tells me Lord 
Archibourne is to be buried in Scotland.” “ You have had 
a long journey, Mr. Fieldes ; I fear you must be tired. Rail- 
way travelling is very tiring.” “ Marmaduke, I want to show 
you how the firs you planted before you went to India have 


54 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


grown up.” “ Mary, you must pay a visit to the new school- 
mistress to-morrow.” “The man is coming to tune the organ 
to-morrow morning — do you care for music, Mr. Fieldes ? ” 
“ The Crowby line is quite incorrigible ; none of the trains 
are good.” “ Our local trains can’t pretend to rival the 
Scotch expresses.” “ I heard from Agatha to-day — the con- 
vent is going to keep her silver jubilee ; you remember 
Agatha, Madge, don’t you?” “Teresa and Bob talk of 
coming to us next week.” These were some of the remarks 
which a casual listener would have heard when silence was 
broken. 

After dinner Mark talked to the squire. He spoke of the 
policy of Cardinals Wiseman and Manning and of the 
Oxford conversions. He was hopeful at first that he had 
struck a fruitful vein ; for the squire remarked at once : — 

“ My father used to say that Dr. Wiseman was rather a 
rash young man ”. 

Fieldes took up his supposed rashness, argued that it was 
far-sightedness, contrasted Wiseman with Manning and both 
with Newman, and paused for a reply. But Mr. Riversdale, 
who had listened patiently, said nothing for some moments. 
Then he remarked : — 

“ I don't know the present archbishop ; but my father used 
to say that Dr. Wiseman was a rash man ”. 

There was some music after dinner ; and soon after ten 
o’clock the squire disappeared and Fieldes learnt that he 
had gone to say prayers for the household. 

“ Mass at half-past eight as usual,” remarked Mrs. Rivers- 
dale as the family separated to go to bed and she gave Madge 
her candle. 

Mr. Riversdale reappeared only for a moment to say good- 
night. Fieldes smoked a cigar in Marmaduke’s company and 
was soon glad, after his journey, to part from a not very 
sympathetic companion, and go early to bed. 


CHAPTER V. 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 

Mark Fieldes was down betimes next morning. The moral 
atmosphere of the place made him rise early. The week 
before he had been staying at Lord Banffshire’s house in 
Scotland, and had come down almost every morning with 
two smart and spoilt young men, who made it a rule never 
to appear until the breakfast-table was deserted. But the 
bracing influences at Skipton were as sensitively appreciated 
as the enervating luxury of Dumbarton. 

As he descended the first flight of stairs — his room was on 
the second floor — he saw Mary with a black veil on her head, 
walking rather rapidly along a narrow passage, and as she 
opened a door at the end, and paused for a moment before 
shutting it to see if any one was following her, Fieldes could 
perceive that she was entering the tribune of the chapel in 
the house. It was just half-past eight and no doubt Mass 
was going to begin. Fieldes hesitated as to whether he 
should follow her. But he was not sure if their sacred 
mysteries were open to the heretic. He went downstairs 
therefore and took a walk in the park. As he returned — 
some forty minutes later — he heard the breakfast gong and 
betook himself to the dining-room. 

The family gradually assembled, and Fieldes devoted 
himself to Mrs. Riversdale and talked of the convent, and 
the school in the village. 

“ Where is Madge ? ” asked the squire. 

“ She is not coming down to breakfast,” Hilda replied — 

( 55 ) 


56 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda had already been to Madge’s room for a minute after 
Mass. 

“ Ah. No doubt she is tired after her journey. I hope 
she has had some breakfast taken upstairs,” and Mr. Rivers- 
dale looked at his wife. 

Mrs. Riversdale’s face was not sympathetic. 

“ Oh, yes. Her maid took up a cup of tea and some eggs 
half an hour ago,” she replied. 

And a little later the hostess was talking to Mark Fieldes 
of the self-indulgence of modern days, and of the very different 
standards of her own youth. And Mark, strong in the con- 
sciousness of his early walk, was not only a sympathetic 
listener but waxed positively eloquent on the subject. Mrs. 
Riversdale did not quite follow his allusion to a recent visit 
he had paid to the Grande Chartreuse, and did not see what 
connection the subject had with her own remarks — except 
that the Carthusians got up early. But she was quite satis- 
fied with Mark’s attitude, and felt that he was on the side of 
the monks and of herself. 

Hilda had found her speech this morning, and when Mrs. 
Riversdale left the breakfast-table she stayed for quite twenty 
minutes talking to Mark Fieldes. 

“ I had no idea it was so late ! ” she exclaimed, as she 
looked at her watch and hurried up to fulfil her promise of 
paying Madge a visit in her bedroom after breakfast. She 
found Madge in by no means a good humour, and the reason 
was not far to seek. For she had had nothing but a cup of 
lukewarm tea and a boiled egg sent her for breakfast, and 
the efforts of her French maid Celestine to get this supple- 
mented had only produced, after much delay, a little cold ham 
in addition. It was not that Madge wanted more than this, 
but it was the old story. If you did not appear for breakfast 
at Skipton, your morning was made as uncomfortable as 
possible. Then, too, Celestine had met Mrs. Riversdale who 
had asked why she was not at Mass and told her that it was 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


57 


the rule of the house that all the visitors’ servants should go 
to Mass. “ I told her that Madame had need of me; but 
Madame Riversdale did not seem to hear me.” 

However Madge wished to talk to Hilda about other things, 
and she had only half-finished superintending the unpacking 
of her trunks, so after the first moments of wrath, her irritation 
was set aside. 

While the unpacking proceeded, with occasional interjec- 
tory remarks from Madge, Hilda had leisure to study George’s 
widow and her surroundings. 

She was amused to see how quickly Madge had changed 
the aspect of the heavily furnished bedroom. Madge had the 
faculty of impressing herself on the material things surround- 
ing her, and as she demanded of them luxury, ease, and 
beauty, with a certain power of will, they yielded these 
habitually. If Hilda had pushed chairs and sofas about, or 
even put evergreens in a bowl, she would have done it with 
effort, and with doubts as to her own success, and that is 
not the spirit in which to deal with matter. Madge treated 
furniture, flowers and clothes imperiously, and they fell into 
the right positions, caught the right lights and harmonised 
or contrasted their colours to the best of their capacity. 

Madge herself was dressed in a morning wrapper, an 
artistic arrangement of chiffon that suited her particularly 
well. On the sofa behind her lay the sable cloak that was 
noted for envy among her friends ; and on a stiff glazed 
screen — one was provided in each spare room at Skipton — 
was flung a most beautiful curtain of Chinese embroidery. 
Cushions and pieces of silk lay about, and countless photo- 
graphs, some in solid silver frames, covered the tables. A 
silver basin, full of violets, and some tall roses in long- 
stemmed glasses, stood among them. 

Hilda no longer wondered at the enormous size of the 
trunks she had seen piled on the Skipton luggage cart the 
day before. Madge went on talking to her maid, while 


58 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda amused herself in looking at the innumerable gilt 
objects on the dressing-table. Six candlesticks were fastened 
on to the looking glass, of which the six facets reflected its 
fair owner’s head from various points of view. Needless to 
say that the glass and appurtenances provided by Mrs. 
Riversdale had been put away in the dressing-room. 

“ Oh, thank you so much,” Madge had said in her most 
polite tones to her mother-in-law, “ it is all so nice and so 
comfortable and so kind, and Celestine can rearrange things 
easily.” 

Celestine was now standing with an air of great chagrin 
and repentance before her little mistress, who was explaining 
to her in French how exceedingly badly she had packed one 
of her new bodices. 

“ Isn’t it too bad, Hilda ? ” said Madge, “ it is all ckiffonee, 
tumbled, messed about,” and she pointed impatiently at the 
exquisitely coloured object the French girl was holding de- 
precatingly towards her. 

“ But madame will see that it is not spoiled in the least. 
Will madame permit that I take it to my room ? ” 

“ No, no, you will only make matters worse, and it cost 
ten guineas, and I must get another, and you know how 
hard up I am already. It is intolerable.” 

“ Madame has two other new ones,” said Celestine meekly. 

“ Put it in the drawer and go away,” said her mistress 
quickly. 

“ The fact is,” said Madge, — and Hilda was afraid the 
retreating maid must hear her, she spoke so loud, — “ that it 
pays them to spoil one’s clothes. But she shan’t have that 
dress, I can tell her ! It is too aggravating ! ” 

Madge lit a cigarette and sank back on the sofa. 

“ Take some violets,” she said a moment later to Hilda ; 
“ no, a good bunch. They come by post from Cannes. 
Aren’t they delicious ? Do you think I’ve improved the 
room ? I knew I couldn’t exist at Skipton if I did not bring 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


59 


some colour with me, but that stupid woman forgot my rose 
quilt. It would have been invaluable. I declare, I believe 
I could have pulled through the time here without losing" 
my temper, if I had had that quilt to look at.” 

She laughed with self-appreciation, but the laugh was- 
surprised and overcome by a sharp sigh. 

“ Come here, Hilda,” Madge got up and walked towards 
a long pier glass at the other end of the room. “ I want to 
explain to you about your frock, and what’s wrong, and let 
me look at that hat,” for Hilda had been told to bring with 
her the large feathered hat she had worn the day before. 

They made a pretty contrast reflected in the long glass ; 
Madge minute, delicately coloured, highly finished ; Hilda 
tall, picturesque, with the grace and perhaps a touch of the 
awkwardness of a healthy, vigorous girl of eighteen. 

“ I don’t know about the hat,” Madge said, twirling it 
round and giving it sundry violent pokes and pushes that 
looked destructive, but in reality improved it wonderfully.. 
“ It is dowdy when it is off, but it suits you, and that matters 
most. There ! ” She stretched herself up to her full height 
and put the hat on Hilda’s head, and then looked critically 
in the glass. “ Have you ever been told that you are like a 
family picture by Sir Joshua? and after all,” with a kind of 
good-natured contemptuousness, “ it doesn’t matter so much 
for a girl to be smart.” 

Hilda looked sadly into her own deep eyes in the glass : 
she liked the family picture idea, but she did not appreciate 
the last observation. If it were right to be smart, why she 
wanted to be smart too. There was something irritating in 
these remarks, showing standards of judgment to which she 
was not accustomed — she who had been so much petted at 
home. It had been implied if not expressed, that she was 
both pretty and clever, but Madge evidently thought nothing 
of the cleverness, and seemed to consider it a personal defect, 
to be treated with kindly pity, that her skirts hung badly 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


6o 

and that her hat was out of fashion. She shook her red 
skirts which had looked so nice before Madge pointed out 
that dreadful fault in the hanging, and sighed again. But 
she was not going to show her feelings to Madge. The 
latter — tired of thinking of somebody else — had crossed over 
to the arm-chair, and flung herself into it. But she wanted 
to keep Hilda, as she did not wish either to leave her room 
or to be alone ; so it was necessary to make some slight 
exertion to entertain her. 

Lunch at Skipton was at two o’clock ; and Madge had 
decreed that Mr. Fieldes should read poetry aloud at one. 
Before that Hilda went to her room to write to her mother, 
and found that, though to Madge Skipton might appear 
stale and tiresome, yet it supplied her with ample materials 
for a home letter. 

“ Beloved Mother, 

“ I am going to write you a long letter of first im- 
pressions which are sure to be mostly wrong, but it will be 
amusing to compare them with the final ones when I get 
home. I do hope you are pretty well to-day and that you 
fion’t miss Brown. She is very grand and stiff, and bent 
on my supporting the honour of the younger branch of the 
house. Happily she is satisfied that I am better dressed 
than Mary, which is not difficult except in the matter of her 
riding habit. Mary was out hunting yesterday and you 
would realise the improvement in her appearance during 
the past two years if you could see her in her Busvine habit. 
Uncle Riversdale was beaming with pride in her, and he was 
looking as well as he always does in his red coat ; they 
made quite a picture. Marmaduke says that it is pretty to 
see how devoted all the people here are to those two. 

“ Mary and I get on pretty well so far, but we got rather 
■cross this morning before breakfast upon the university 
question. I was only arguing in favour of Catholic young 
men going to Oxford and she said that her father thought it 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


6l 


would never do, and she repeated a pompous sentence about 
Catholic atmosphere. I suppose I ought to have given in 
at once but I didn’t, and she was as much shocked as if I 
had contradicted the Pope. Mr. Fieldes looked so amused 
while we were talking. I haven’t told you a word yet about 
Mr. Fieldes. Isn’t it interesting to meet him after my ex- 
citement over the Phantasmagoria. I don’t quite know 
whether I like him or not, although he is very pleasant to 
talk to. That everybody says ; and it is rather quaint to 
hear Aunt Helen talk to him about all her poor people and 
about poor George and Mary when they were babies. At 
this moment she has trotted him off to see the schools. 
Marmaduke told me last night that he had never seen a 
man who suited himself so much to the person he was 
talking to as Mr. Fieldes. ‘ If Aunt Helen,’ he said, ‘could 
have heard him tell good stories in the smoking-room at 

B (where we met in the summer) I think her hair would 

have turned grey.’ Marmaduke evidently doesn’t like him 
and is somehow a little jealous. 

“ You know Marmaduke’s voice, and his style of singing, 
and I remember you said once to him that he reminded 
you of Santley. Mr. Fieldes has a small voice but with 
something very pathetic about it. He sings pretty little 
modern things, Blake’s words set by some new man. 
Last night after dinner Madge told them both to sing and 
both refused and were pressed and refused again. At last 
Marmaduke moved, whereupon Mr. Fieldes somehow jumped 
from the other end of the room on to the piano-stool and 
sang all the evening, and I don’t believe we shall hear a 
note from Marmaduke this time. I like Marmaduke, but he 
doesn’t like me at all ; he thinks me unamiable and critical 
and a prig; and he looked so bored after breakfast this 
morning when I talked books with Mr. Fieldes. I think it 
was stupid of me to talk about the Grammar of Assent^ 
and I won’t do it again. I wonder when I shall learn what 


62 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


not to do in society. Madge says it doesn’t matter while 
I’m quite fresh, but I must listen to other people talking and 
see how they say things. She says you may talk of almost 
anything when you know how. 

“ I must stop now, for Mr. Fieldes is going to read to us, 
but I will go on this evening.” 

This is how the letter was finished that evening after 
tea : — 

“ Beloved mother, what are you doing by yourself this 
evening, and do you miss me a little bit ? Will you see that 
somebody gives Father Jones my school story-books, as they 
will be wanted for my class. There is little to relate since 
this morning, and Madge finds life here terribly dull, but it 
seems to me rather amusing. However, I have had only 
twenty-four hours, but it feels as if it had been much longer. 
I have just come from the old school-room. It is a dear 
untidy old place, just as you remember it, but it might be 
made lovely. We have been trying to persuade Mary to do 
it up, but she was a little cross at our suggestions, and said 
it wasn’t worth while to take the trouble. I am afraid there 
were old things of George’s that she did not want to touch, 
and that we ought to have remembered. It is odd that she 
has been a little touchy sometimes to-day, and I used to think 
it was impossible to put her out of temper. She left us to 
do something in the sacristy, and Marmaduke and I amused 
ourselves by looking at the old lesson-books and talking of 
education. We had such an argument first about modern 
education, and I said I should never get over your not allow- 
ing me to have a regular Girton governess, who could have 
taught me Latin and Greek, and a little science to make me 
accurate. He says it is all stuff, and prevents women being 
half as sharp as they are by nature. He said all the insulting 
things about our instincts being the best part of us and that 
education interferes with them and makes us reason more 
slowly than men and miss the right point in the end. I got 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


63 


rather cross ; which delighted him, and he said : ‘ Now here’s 
a proof ; you have read heaps of things, and you can talk 
capitally of things that you don’t understand, but I would 
much rather have Mary’s judgment of character than yours. 
You see all sorts of little things about people which makes 
you critical and censorious and yet you would be taken in by 
the first comer. Mary isn’t half so clever, but you are much 
more likely to get into a scrape than she is. She has got 
instincts and you have got what you are pleased to call your 
reason.’ I protested angrily at this impertinence, which only 
made him worse. ‘ Then Mary is much more useful than you 
are ; she works beautifully and she can decorate furniture, 
while you make pencil studies of single leaves for their own 
sake, as I heard you telling Fieldes, just as he makes sketches 
of great houses for their own sakes. If I were your mother 
I’d teach you “ to hem and to sew Then Mary is far better 
tempered.’ ‘ What on earth has Mary got to do with it ? ’ 
I said crossly, for really, mother, he is a little annoying, be- 
cause I can see he means what he says. He was sitting 
in a deep chair all the time, hardly looking at me, while he 
perpetrated these impertinent remarks. At last I said I 
would stand it no longer, and I walked out of the room. 

“ I must just tell you about Mr. Fieldes’ reading. I did 
enjoy it so. It was all poetry, bits from different people, 
mostly beautiful, but some of those Madge chose made me 
rather shy. He reads very well and the timbre of his voice 
suits pathetic things. 

“ Marmaduke came in towards the end and listened. Mr. 
Fieldes was just reading those exquisite lines of Matthew 
Arnold’s ‘ A Farewell He read it most beautifully and with- 
out any affectation, and he left the room directly afterwards. 
Madge soon followed. I was left alone with Marmaduke 
who was sitting near me. 

“ ‘ Do you like that sort of thing, Hilda ? ’ he asked. 
‘ Immensely,’ I said, ‘ don’t you P * ‘I see it is fine,’ he 


64 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


answered ; * but there is something in it I don’t like. Fieldes 
would express it for me. Something of weakness, a want 
of backbone somewhere. It is to me the poetry of a nation 
that is going down hill.’ I said something rather stupid, 
and without paying much attention to it he exclaimed sharply : 
‘ I say, Hilda, who asked him to read ? Who was he reading 
to ? ’ ‘ We both asked him,’ I said. At that moment 

Aunt Helen came in, and Marmaduke, who had had lunch, 
went out with Uncle Riversdale. Aunt Helen talked to me 
then about your health and other things. Do you know, I 
am sure she means very kindly ! She says that she hopes 
I shall come again for the county ball and she told me 
how she used to enjoy it herself. I think she was a little 
hurt at our not coming here last year, she evidently didn’t 
believe it was fear of the scarlet fever in the village ; they all 
ignore infection and scout drains. Considering her health and 
her fat, isn't she wonderfully plucky ? Always kneeling up 
straight through Mass, and Mary says she has never seen 
her lie on a sofa in her life, or read a novel. How Madge 
does dislike her, but I won’t talk much of Madge, because 
you don’t care for her, but she is very fascinating. Now I 
must stop. 

“ I will write constantly^ and then it will make a sort of 
diary of my first time away from you. 

“ Do you remember how we used to play at seeing how we 
liked each other in new places ? Well, I like you better than 
ever while I am at Skipton. 

“ Your lovingest daughter, 

“ Hilda. 

“ Is it true, as Madge says, that Skipton and all the property 
will belong to Mary now that George is dead ? Madge said 
that the odd thing is that it hasn’t changed Mary a bit, and 
that she really doesn’t believe she thinks about it — she thinks 
it is a sort of stupidity, but I don’t believe Mary is stupid, 
do 3^ou ? ” 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 65 

Mrs. Riversdale had stayed talking to Hilda until the 
gong sounded for luncheon. 

Luncheon at Skipton had always been a long ceremony, 
but it seemed to Madge now that the old butler and his 
many subordinates had grown slower than ever. Even after 
they had finished handing round three or four varieties of 
sweets, there was still much to be done with cheese and 
butter, and the ceremonies attending on cake and fruit and 
wine appeared interminable. 

When all was over, Mrs. Riversdale showed no signs of 
moving, and the others sitting idly round the table waited 
impatiently for their release. The master of the house and 
Marmaduke Lemarchant were out with their guns, so that 
on Mr. Fieldes devolved the duties of the only gentleman 
in the company. He had been doing his best to maintain 
the flagging conversation between the ladies, but had again 
found it rather a hard task. 

Mrs. Riversdale sat at the head of the table, enveloped 
in her black silk, which was even more covered with crape 
than the gown she had worn the day before, and weighed down 
with chains of jet and a large miniature of the late George 
set in pearls. She looked, in spite of a certain stateliness 
in her bearing, oppressed by herself and her surroundings. 
Madge’s delicate, Dresden-china, little figure was now elab- 
orately dressed in a masculine style, just so far in advance 
of the general fashion of the moment as to appear a little 
surprising even to Mark Fieldes, as well as to appal Mrs. 
Riversdale, quite apart from the fact of its being worn by a 
widow. To Hilda, who had recovered from the shock of 
the day before, and had dismissed from her mind the ideal 
broken heart, the dress was extremely interesting, and not 
unworthy of imitation. She was just wondering how the 
belt was arranged in that peculiar way, when at last, with 
the dignity begotten of difficulty, Mrs. Riversdale rose and 
led the way to the adjoining drawing-room. 

5 


66 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


All the rooms at Skipton were large, high, well-lighted 
and well-proportioned, but entirely unpicturesque. It would 
have needed nothing short of artistic genius, and genius 
with a large command of materials, to have made that room 
beautiful. Madge would certainly have begun the work in a 
spirit of revolution. How often had she longed to have the 
hanging of the old family pictures — now arranged entirely 
with a view to their shape and size in a large pattern on 
each of the four walls. And how often she had had to 
restrain a mad longing to lay violent hands on the stiff, 
lonely islands of furniture, whose severance seemed ruled 
by the inexorable flolal designs of the carpet. A magnificent 
carving by Gibbons and a few bits of historic china on the 
mantelshelf in the corner where Mrs. Riversdale passed the 
greater part of her day made one pleasant spot for the eye 
to rest on, and was a contrast to the general stilfness ; 
though the various efforts of her own and Mary’s needles, in 
the form of banner screens, cushions, etc., were not highly 
artistic. 

Mrs. Riversdale had been a little worried as to the plans 
for the afternoon. She herself could not go out, as she was 
suffering from an attack of bronchitis ; and she had arranged 
that Mary should drive Father Clement to visit some of the 
poor in the neighbourhood. It resulted from this arrange- 
ment that Madge and Hilda were left to their own devices, 
in company with Mr. Fieldes. This was exactly what their 
hostess had wished to prevent, but she had been too full of 
Father Clement and the poor that morning to remember 
Hilda. She apologised to Madge for leaving her to herself, 
and offered her the landau, but Madge preferred to walk. A 
moment afterwards the tall, white figure of the monk was 
seen coming along the laurel walk in the garden. His cowl 
was thrown back, and showed the shaven head, the narrow 
dome-shaped forehead, the thin regular features, and the long 
white beard. The head was held erect, a little thrown back. 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


67 


as if he were scenting the wintry air with pleasure. His step 
was alert and vigorous, but rather slow. His whole movement 
seemed in measure to some rhythm, “the rhythm,” as Fieldes 
himself once expressed it, “ of freedom willingly in bondage 

Mark Fieldes was rooted to the spot at the sight of him, 
and it needed an imperious gesture from Madge, who was 
vanishing through a side door, before he would follow. 

“ Let us go to the billiard-room ! ” she exclaimed, as the 
door shut behind them, and she almost ran down the passage. 
“ It is the only bearable room,” Madge cried as they entered. 
“ I arranged it myself, and they had these splendid old sofas 
in the house already.” She flung herself down on a long 
deep sofa by the fireplace. “ I will say for my mother-in- 
law that the fires are big enough, but, oh, how one pines for 
coffee. Have you matches ? ” 

Mr. Fieldes had matches, and Madge, cigarette in mouth, 
mounted on a footstool and leant towards him, balancing 
herself with her two white hands behind her back. Mr. 
Fieldes thought that she looked a picture of grace and elegance 
in the style of a Parisian water-colour sketch, and he hastened 
to strike a lucifer and light her cigarette ; but he was too 
eager, and he dropped it only an inch from her foot in its 
open-work stocking. Madge leant forward and pretended 
to box his ears as he stooped to pick it up, but at this same 
moment she looked out of the window and saw the monk, 
who had stopped to speak to the gardener before passing on 
to the hall. He bowed to her with old-fashioned grace, and 
walked on. Madge turned red with anger, and flung her 
cigarette into the grate. 

“It is intolerable,” she said quite fiercely, “having that 
man prowling about. It is bad enough to have to go to the 
chapel twice a day, but to have him prowling round, and 
sticking his long beard in at the windows, is insufferable.” 

Mr. Fieldes watched her curiously ; he was puzzled at the 
amount of temper she showed with regard to Father Clement, 


68 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and he wished to understand why there was this personal 
feeling. He thought he knew Mrs. George Riversdale fairly 
well. He had spent three weeks at different times in her 
company during the year, and had grown almost intimate 
with her; he appreciated her many little ways of charming 
and of exciting interest and even something warmer ; but he 
fancied that she was rather different at Skipton-le-Grange to 
what she had been elsewhere. She was excited, theatrical, 
and a little nervous, overdoing her good manners with Mrs. 
Riversdale, and feverish in her girlish friendship with Hilda. 

After he had succeeded in lighting her cigarette, Madge 
flung herself wearily on the sofa which presented the best 
background of drapery and cushions, and was overshadowed 
by a spiky palm tree. 

Fieldes leant his tall, stooping shoulders against the 
mantelshelf, and looked down on her while she talked. 

“ Did I ever tell you that we had to live here when we 
first married ? ” she said. “ Did you ever hear of such a stupid 
plan ? It was — I can’t tell you what it was. You can see 
what the house is now. Well, it was always full of priests 
and cousins and old fogies, never empty, and the visitors 
were always bores. George could hunt and shoot, but I 
wasn’t allowed to, and I wonder I didn’t go silly. Of course 
I was in love with George then, or I should never have been 
such an idiot as to agree to it. After a year I managed to 
get a house in London, and there I could breathe, I could 
exist, and after that we came only on state visits.” 

Fieldes found that facial sympathy was enough, and Madge 
flowed on, eagerly explaining all the hardships of her past 
lot ; looking very pretty, and at moments very pathetic. He 
could not but be touched and interested in her confidences, 
though a little thrown back by the touches of temper she 
could hardly suppress. 

“As I said to Laura Hurstmonceaux,” she concluded, 
after a long tirade against her mother-in-law, “ the wonder 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 69 

is that one kept straight at all — she came in between me 
and George at every turn, and made him interfere with me, 
and one of the plans was to get this Father Clement to do 
me good. You cannot think how funny it was to see her 
little plots to leave us together, and now I bet you anything 
you like she and he are groaning over me at this moment, 
and saying that I am going hopelessly to the bad. Heigho,” 
and she sighed deeply. 

A few moments’ silence followed. 

“ Tell me about Miss Hilda Riversdale,” asked Fieldes 
abruptly, “ she seems quite different from the rest of the 
clan.” 

“ Oh, yes,” answered Madge, “ her widow mother — who 
brought her up — is not one of the old Catholic lot at all. 
She was a Miss Harding — a convert ; and Hilda is her 
only child and has lived entirely with her.” 

“ A granddaughter of James Harding who had that large 
house in Eaton Square ? ” asked Mark. 

Madge nodded. 

“ Then she must be his only grandchild, for the eldest 
Miss Harding never married,” said Fieldes musingly. 

He took up a book from the table and there was another 
pause in the conversation. It was Madge who now spoke 
first. 

“ What book have you got there ? ” 

“ A stupid thing of Octave Feuillet; it is Feuillet at his 
feeblest.” 

He half opened the paper volume as he spoke and then 
shut it quickly. 

“ There was a photograph of a lady inside,” said Madge, 
with a little malice. 

“And a man,” said Mark. “It is only a photograph I 
took last year with my instantaneous camera.” 

“ Let me see it.” 

“ Td rather not; in fact,” mysteriously, “I really can’t; 


70 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


that is, not unless you swear by all that is sacred never to 
allude to it, never to mention it to a living human being.” 

As he spoke he withheld the book in a tantalising manner. 

“ Sworn, sworn a thousand times,” cried Madge, de- 
lighted to have her curiosity aroused. 

“ Most solemnly ? ” said Mark. 

“ Most solemnly,” echoed Madge. 

He handed her the book, but she did not perceive the 
intense curiosity betrayed in his attitude, the mere wish for 
information mingling with an artistic delight in the study 
of human nature. 

It was some moments before Madge could make out the 
dim figures. Suspicion and surprise alternated in her face 
as she looked at it, and a momentary indignation appeared, 
but was suppressed. The likeness showed two figures, a 
woman standing and a man kneeling on one knee — the 
woman was in fancy dress, of antique classical make, the 
man’s large muscular form was in ordinary evening dress. 
The woman’s hand was raised to his lips. 

“ How did you do this ? ” 

There was a slight touch of scorn in Madge’s manner. 

“ Oh, it was at the Duchess of A.’s. Cecilia Rupert had 
been dancing divinely — but divinely, it was simply inspired 
movement. You know what she can be and do. It is 
genius ; there is no other word for it. Well, I saw Lord 
Bellasis creep quietly out of his place in the audience, and 
he passed close to me, so that he touched me. I was in the 
front row, at the end, and as he slipped past the screen 
close to me I moved one step after him, and saw what you 
see a dim reflection of now. It was taken in a flash of 
light from a tableau as he stood in the side screen. I 
hardly knew what I should find when I developed the re- 
flection. And seriously ” — something in her face made his 
tone more apologetic — “ I didn’t mean to steal a march upon 
him, I was resolved never to show it to mortal man, much 


AN INDISCREET PHOTOGRAPH. 


71 


less mortal woman, but you were so severe on me yesterday 
when I spoke of Bellasis showing Miss Rupert attention 
that I could not resist letting you see it.” 

“You have done it very cleverly/’ said Madge, keeping a 
firm hold of the little limp paper, and ignoring Mark’s out- 
stretched hand. “ When was this ? ” 

“ Oh, it was in the spring, at Whitsuntide. You won’t 
tell anybody, will you ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Madge very slowly, “ I shall not mention 
it.” 

At that moment the old butler came in with a salver load 
of letters. 

“What a heap for you, Mr. Fieldes,” said Madge with 
admiration, hastily slipping the limp photograph, which was 
half hidden in her hand, under the sofa cushion by her side. 

Mr. Fieldes took his letters to one of the windows, and 
began to look quickly through various notes and invitations,, 
for Parliament was sitting and London was beginning to fill. 
Presently he raised his head to make an observation on the 

odious handwriting of that charming Madame de B , 

the ambassadress, when his speech was stopped in the 
utterance by his surprise at what he saw. Madge was hold- 
ing something down in the fire with the poker, and with such 
an expression of gnome-like mischief and cruel exultation in 
her small face and figure, that Fieldes half expected to see that 
she, was burning some living thing in the hot coals; but as 
he looked apprehensively into the fire, the thing which 
writhed under the poker curled up in process of burning, 
and he saw the two dim figures of Lord Bellasis and Cecilia 
Rupert intensified in expression, as it seemed, by the flame 
that, a moment afterwards, extinguished them. It was the 
affair of a second, and Fieldes had only time to look hastily 
back at his letters, and was so confused as to open and read 
intently an evident bill, before Madge began to talk again in 
a much calmer voice than before. 


72 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ By the way, Mr. Fieldes, what has become of that 
photograph you showed me, I want to look at it again, 
please.” 

This sort of remark was easily responded to. Fieldes said 
quite naturally : — 

“ Isn’t it among your letters on the chimneypiece ? ” 

Madge searched, shook her gown and looked about. 

“ You are sure it is not among yours ? ” 

Fieldes turned them over demonstratively. 

“ Dear, how tiresome,” said Madge, “ I’m afraid I must 
have dropped it into the fire with a heap of envelopes. I am 
so sorry ; but I must get ready, or it will be dark before we 
get out.” 

Madge tripped away, trilling as she went in a wilfully 
irritating way, in her pretty little soprano, “ My heart is like 
an apple tree ”. 

Fieldes was annoyed with her for destroying his property, 
yet in his heart he knew that she had acted rightly. He had 
hardly shown it to her before he was repenting of his 
indiscretion. Why had he been such an ass as to show her 
the photograph ? What fit of tactlessness had made him 
give it to one of Lord Bellasis’ most intimate friends ? A 
thing that he had meant never to reveal, an action he had 
known to be ungentlemanly. He had seen the curl of con- 
tempt on Madge’s little mouth. He had done for himself, 
perhaps, with a whole circle of people should Madge be 
indiscreet. He would be described to her friends as ungentle- 
manly, prying and very idiotic. It was characteristic of him 
that he would in this instance agree quite candidly with 
their verdict — he — whose ambition it was to be a supreme 
social success through delicacy and tact founded on his 
knowledge of human nature. Happily for him Madge had 
more inducements to hold her tongue than arose from any 
mere regard for the promise she had given him. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A LETTER FROM LONDON. 

Madge, after leaving the billiard-room, went on with her 
singing until she had shut her bedroom door behind her. 
She had hardly done so before Hilda knocked. 

“ Don’t come in,” said Madge quickly. 

“ Then we will wait in the hall,” Hilda answered. 

“ No, no,” said Madge, springing up, “ don’t wait. I can’t 
come out, I have got so many letters by this post to answer. 
Take Mr. Fieldes for a walk, and I shall go for a turn later.” 

“ Oh,” Hilda’s voice sounded dissatisfied. Madge heard 
her move away and come back. 

“ But, Madge.” 

“ Well ? ” rather impatiently. 

“ Oh, nothing,” said Hilda, and she went off again. She 
had meant to ask Madge if she need go out alone with Mr. 
Fieldes, but her courage failed. She knew that Madge 
would divine the shyness that was her only objection, and 
would be merciless in her laughter. 

As Hilda’s footsteps could be heard retreating down the 
passage, Madge said to herself : — 

“ I don’t know why I said I should go out with them, for 
I never meant to. I’ve got too much to do.” 

She was standing by the writing-table and she absently 
opened a silver box and took from it a marron glad. The 
soothing sensation of this particular bonbon on her palate 
was pleasant, she sat down to enjoy it. Presently her# 
thoughts became again explicit. 

( 73 ) 


74 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“Yes, I have got a great deal to do, chiefly of course I 
I must prepare for confession. I was right in thinking I 
should be quiet enough here, at last, to think things over. 
And it is a good long time to think about, — since Easter.” 

The matron glac'e was dissolved entirely by now. Madge 
felt the need of another sensation, she drew a vase of violets 
nearer to her and inhaled a long deep breath. Then she 
took up her cigarette case and lit a cigarette. A moment 
more and she had ensconced herself on the sofa and pum- 
melled the cushion behind her into a right state of submission. 

“I cannot stand seeing Father Clement; I wonder I 
wanted to go to confession to him. Now that I see him 
his face maddens me. It is intolerable of my mother-in-law 
to have brought him here to convert me. Oh, dear, I wish 
she knew what a saint my own friends think me. How 
little she knows,” Madge smiled bitterly, “what I went 
through, she — who had such a husband and two children 
to care for. I suppose good women will be well punished 
for their horrid harsh judgments. Now if I had been Mrs. 
Riversdale — but,” and she laughed more naturally, “ to tell 
the truth if I had, really I should have died from absolute 
dulness.” 

Puff, puff, a little dreaminess. 

“ I think it would be much easier to go to one of the 
Servites in London who know nothing about me ; only Fve 
too much to do in London, and — and somehow I thought it 
would be easier down here. I was so extraordinarily good 
in those old dull days here when I first began to be unhappy, 
and Father Clement used to ... I almost wish I had not 
been quite so rude to him. Well, I suppose I had better 
rouse myself and go to the chapel if I am going to prepare. 
Nine months, and I used to go every fortnight.” 

Madge rose, walked to the table and touched a prayer 
book near her, but did not raise it. Instead she lifted a 
photograph and looked at it. It showed a group of about 


A LETTER FROM LONDON. 


75 


fifteen people, standing about the doorway of a magnificent 
structure, one of the greatest of English historic fortresses. 
One or two of the group were on horseback ; the others, 
men and women, had most of them just dismounted. Two 
or three ladies only were not in their habits, and among these 
was Madge. 

Oh, dear,” she thought, “ and only two months ago 1 
What fun it was. There is no place in this world like 
Bellasis, and it will be quite, quite spoilt for us all if he 
makes a fool of himself and marries Cecilia. It was mean 
and low to take that photograph. No gentleman would 
have done it. I am glad I burnt it. It might have been of 
use to Cecilia. By the way I wonder if he has kept the film, 
or if he took other proofs.” 

“After all,” she said presently, “these months haven’t 
been so very bad. I have not worried very much, and I 
have had some very good times. Let me see, there was the 
season ; although I was in mourning, it was pleasant. 
Then the shooting party at Mr. Z.’s, and the other visits 
in the Highlands, then the Duchess of A.’s, and best of all 
Bellasis Castle. And I haven’t done anything wrong, I 
mean not very wrong, all the time, which is a comfort. But 
it is so tiring going to confession, and raking up all one’s 
feelings, when far the best I can do is to get rid of feeling 
altogether. Yet I quite made up my mind I would go to 
the sacraments down here, and in fact I must^ and in fact I 
will. Father Clement was to hear confessions after his 
drive with Mary. I will go to the chapel now, if nobody is 
about, and I will prepare there. I shall just have time.” 

At that moment there was a knock at the door. 

“ Who is it ? ” 

“ C’est moi, madame.” 

“ Entrez done.” 

Celestine came in. She did not notice the nervous start 
of relief that Madge gave at this interruption, but she was 


76 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


surprised at the graciousness of her reception. She had 
just finished repairing the crushed bodice which had brought 
upon her a scolding that morning. Madge praised her work, 
tried it on, needlessly, and ordered some alterations which 
quite puzzled Celestine. 

“ Did you meet anybody in the passage ? ” she said a 
little mysteriously. 

“ Non, madame.” 

“Oh, never mind,” said Madge irrelevantly, “you can 
go now.” Then turning sharply round : “ Go, Celestine, 
didn’t you hear me speak ? ” 

“ But, madame, je voudrais remplacer ” 

“ Oh, go,” cried Madge nervously. 

Celestine dropped the bodice on the bed with a little 
gesture of protest. Madge, the moment she was gone, 
knelt down by the sofa and burst into tears. 

“ Oh, what a miserable unhappy woman I am. I must, 
must go to confession and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Every- 
body is unkind to me, everybody that’s good I mean, and I 
am quite alone, and, oh, so miserable, and I must amuse 
myself, and I mustn’t feel. I knew how it would be if I 
came to this horrid, horrid place. It frightens me. The 
chapel frightens me, it makes me so dreadfully, terribly afraid 
of dying. I remember when I was ill in this room, and I 
thought about going to heaven, and how I should get the 
love there I couldn’t get from George. But now I can’t 
think of those things, but I am frightened because, as Cecilia 
says, life is a mortal illness.” 

She sat up now on the sofa : the tears had relieved her. 

“ I wish I hadn’t got into this state,” she went on, “ I must 
try to get calm before I can think properly. After all Father 
Clement will be in the confessional again after Benediction 
to-night, and to-morrow is a feast. I can easily slip away 
after tea and begin my preparation then. I am too confused 
and tired for it to be of any use to examine myself now.” 


A LETTER FROM LONDON. 


77 


Then she remembered that she had not even opened her 
letters. She might as well do that, as her own thinking 
was only waste of time. The first letter that she read was 
from Mrs. Hurstmonceaux. 

‘ My dear Madge, 

“ I wonder how you are pulling through the time 
down there ! I picture you to myself with the priests and 
the cousins and the old fogies — or better still arranging the 
flowers for the chapel, or teaching the Sunday school. It 
presented so many sweet pictures to my mind — as Lord 
Bellasis said to me to-night, ‘ How delicious she must look 
when she is praying ’. But seriously, Madge, is this wise ? 
You gave admirable business reasons for your plan, but I 
have my suspicions of you, all the same. 

“You said you were going down to Skipton to arrange 
your money matters with your husband’s family. That 
sounds well, but, Madge, I think it is my knowledge of your 
character that makes me have my suspicions of this visit. 
What is it in a woman’s nature that makes her love to try 
experiments ? I am half afraid you have gone to see what 
it feels like at Skipton. I have known people get themselves 
complicated in absurd religious emotions and scruples who 
only began with this sort of curiosity, with a wish to experi- 
ment on their own emotions. I am half afraid you have gone 
to try Skipton, to make sure you can throw over your past life. 
However, though I give you this warning, I am not much 
alarmed. There is this advantage in your impressionable- 
ness, your sensitiveness to influence, in your artistic tempera- 
ment, that you are easily repelled by what is unattractive. 
I think the experiment may have a bracing effect. All the 
narrowness, the prosaic dulness, the superstitious, unreal 
bigotry, must be repulsive to your nature. As Lord Bellasis 
said last night, ‘ She is so easily impressed, yet so hard to 
force ’. This is the second time I have quoted that friend 
of yours, so I will tell you how we passed this evening to- 


78 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


gether. I asked him to dine at eight, but he said he would 
rather come at half-past. My dear, whoever has to take 
that man in hand will have a time of it — and yet one can 
hardly blame him for being spoilt. I suppose nobody in 
England has had more of the spoiling process applied to 
him. And there is something so graceful (if such a huge 
thing can be graceful) and simple in him all the time. 
Where I do blame him a little is in his flirtation with Cecilia. 
Surely he has had enough of more delicate, more subtle 
overtures from far more beautiful women to resist Cecilia’s • 
unblushing siege ? Perhaps it is the appearance of extreme 
openness that he likes. Anyhow she manages to amuse 
him. Much as I dislike her, I own there is a touch of 
genius. I never saw anybody so carried away by what 
excites her emotions. To see her listening to music, above 
all — to see her dance. I fancy it is partly a touch of hysteria 
that gives that peculiar light in her eyes ; she seems to work 
herself up into a sort of frenzy of excitement — of pleasure 
touched by pain. It is the untrammelled, unconventional, 
almost fierce nature asserting itself. Last night there was 
a pathos, a melancholy in her dancing that was curiously 
original. Bellasis and I fell into a sort of reverie, the spirit 
of old Rome seemed to come out of it. She said before she 
began, ‘ Let us play that we are away from it all, all the 
dulness, the stupidity, the Methodist chapels, the dons, 
the goody-goody sickening old England ; let us play at 
Rome. Come to the smoking-room.’ Well, we put away 
everything but the low sofas and the cushions and we hid 
the newspapers, and we lit the lamps my husband brought 
from Naples, and then we took the carpets away off the 
marble floor. And in the low light, I played, and she danced, 
and the splendid pagan creature seemed to take us into 
the one rhythm that is in all music, the rhythm that 
our souls have caught from nature and have concentrated 
in art. 


A LETTER FROM LONDON. 


79 


“ Now, as I am dropping with sleep, I must stop this long- 
winded letter, dearest Madge, hoping that the fatigue of 
reading it has not added to the tedium of your present 
surroundings. 

“ A vous (very much), 

“ Laura. 

“ Monday night, i a.m.” 

Madge’s face had changed several times during the reading 
of this letter. A sense of satisfaction and consolation had 
come from the insinuated and repeated compliments of the 
first pages. Then Laura was quite right ; Skipton was 
simply painful and sympathy was soothing. Laura was quite 
wrong, however, in supposing that she was in any danger of 
turning into a devote. But sympathy and compliments were 
forgotten as the letter passed to Cecilia’s dancing. Madge’s 
face darkened, her hand was clenched. She read each word 
slowly and carefully, then turned back and scanned them 
still more closely. Was this in reality, this absurd, high- 
flown account of Cecilia’s dancing, a practical warning ? 
That would be exactly like Laura, and yet what could Laura 
know or divine that could make her take up such an attitude ? 
Or rather what could she imagine, for there was nothing for 
Laura to know ? 

“ Nothing at all,” she muttered to herself, as she read and 
re-read the flowing, pointed writing. 

So occupied was Madge that it was not until she was 
startled by the great clock in the chapel tower striking half- 
past five that she roused herself and hurriedly joined the 
others round the tea-table. She was not surprised to hear 
that there was no Benediction that evening ; she could not 
think now what had made her suppose there would be. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A RETROSPECT. 

If Madge had not seen Mark’s stolen photograph that after- 
noon, Laura’s account of Cecilia’s dancing would not have 
given her so much food for thought. Cecilia was evidently 
becoming a more serious element in affairs of importance 
than Madge had ever expected her to be. Mark’s evidence 
for his gossip of the day before had impressed itself painfully 
on her mind. Though this photograph was burnt, she was 
not sure there might not be another copy ; and the inci- 
dent had actually happened, and must be fresh in Bellasis’ 
memory, — the memory of a man of honour. Then she could 
not really doubt that there was a definite intention in Laura’s 
absurdly poetical description of Cecilia’s dancing in a badly 
lighted back smoking-room in a dull London house. 

A little explanation is needed to show why Madge felt so 
deeply as to the possibility of a marriage between Lord Bellasis 
and Miss Rupert, and why Mark Fieldes appealed to her as 
an authority on the subject, and why Laura wrote to her in 
detail of the evening which the two had spent together in her 
house. 

The ways and manners of any set in society may differ 
endlessly, but they have one thing generally in common. 
Each clique has as a rule its hero or heroine, and delights, 
by an exaggerated mannerism, in talking of his or her 
wonderful gifts or peculiarities. They choose an individual 
who is a specimen of their ideas and their way of living, and 
who represents them to the rest of the world. They know 

(8o) 


A RETROSPECT. 


8l 


that they are regarded as So-and-so’s “ lot,” or “ set,” or 
“ friends 

Lord Bellasis was a marked instance of a man who was 
the centre of a clique ; and he had all the necessary qualifica- 
tions. He was unmarried, not too young, enormously rich. 
His home was a very fine old castle, and his yacht was 
perfection. To an acute eye there were however signs of a 
possible want of permanence in his usefulness as a centre. 
He had only recently lived the sort of life and done the sort 
of actions that showed that he appreciated the good things 
of the world. His youth had been spent in travel. It was 
said that he had had wonderful adventures in dim regions, 
in South Africa, or perhaps South America, and that his 
command of languages which nobody can understand” 
was marvellous. But he had no strong political interests, 
and his philanthropic enterprises inclined to hobbyism. 
Since his reappearance on the social scene, which he had 
abandoned in the early stages of his dancing days, he had 
talked of political life and political interests half cynically, 
but with complete information. He preferred as his friends 
people who had such interests, and they were for the present 
taking for granted that he had come back to English life to 
do great things. 

Of course there was another side to the fashion of hold- 
ing him in such immense esteem ; he was unmarried, and 
practical people thought that possibly he “ was looking 
round ” (as an American friend suggested in speaking to 
himself) for a mistress of Bellasis Castle. This notion 
gave additional importance to the women — and charming 
women they were — who had grouped themselves about 
him. So charming were they in every sense, so rarefied 
was their mental atmosphere and so exclusive, that it was 
really surprising that Madge had obtained her admission 
amongst them. Before she had met Lord Bellasis she had 
not done badly with the sporting, money-spending friends to 


82 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


whom George had introduced her. Now the very thought 
of such people was distasteful as a faded scent to her nostrils. 
The change had come rapidly. There had been a beautiful, 
a delightful week, replete with surprises. It had been in 
the house of a Lady K., who had taken a fancy to her and 
who had included her in a large shooting party in February. 
Madge had not been half an hour in the house before she 
discovered that the party consisted of Lord Bellasis and his 
friends, and that she was almost the only one among them 
who was not of them in any way. Madge’s half-terrified 
soul took fire with ambition. She swore, as she sat in a 
chilly back bedroom, that she would conquer or die ; and her 
wishes for success were almost prayers. She bore a mortally 
dull evening with absolute unconsciousness and infectious 
good humour. Lady Campion, the old aunt of Lord Bellasis, 
a woman of strong and unaccountable likes and dislikes, 
became in the course of a few days quite devoted to her. 
Before the end of the visit she had won her way, for she 
had captured the very heart of the citadel. She was breath- 
less with unbetrayed excitement when after one breakfast by 
her side Lord Bellasis chose the vacant seat by her at 
luncheon. At another breakfast and another luncheon he 
did the same. Other attentions too numerous to be related 
followed. 

In a less-refined atmosphere Madge might have been 
betrayed into vainglory, and the ladies of the party might 
have only resisted her the more. But these people were 
real ladies, and Madge instinctively adopted their spirit. 
They told each other, and they told Lord Bellasis, that she 
was quite charming, in fact they adopted her on the spot 
pro tern. In their rooms at night they told each other how 
her hands and her feet betrayed the vulgarity of her origin, 
and that if Lord Bellasis persisted in his new fancy she 
must be taught a great many things, but that she might 
eventually become presentable. 


A RETROSPECT. 


83 


Amongst them at that time Cecilia Rupert was held to be 
the reigning favourite, and she was made to be popular. 
She was a daughter of the late Lord Rupert, one of 
Mr. Gladstone’s peers. She was good natured and her 
rampant egotism was on a large artistic scale. She had 
few small meannesses or petty spites. She and Madge struck 
up an alliance. 

No more details of that eventful week need here be given. 
Lord Bellasis and Madge had made great friends. He spoke 
with honest admiration of her goodness and of her gowns, 
and used strong expressions with regard to the departed 
George Riversdale, who, it appeared, had not appreciated 
his own happiness. 

All this had happened at a fortunate moment. Lord 
Bellasis wished to have a friend young enough to be amus- 
ing, a shrewd and practical woman, to help his only near 
relation, his aunt, Lady Campion (who was old and infirm) 
to entertain his guests at Bellasis Castle when he reopened 
it for shooting in the following autumn. Before speaking of 
the matter to Lady Campion he had talked it over with 
Cecilia. Cecilia made the common mistake of preferring the 
unknown danger to the known. There was not one among 
them all into whose hands she would willingly give the 
conduct of those vitally, terribly, important gatherings 
at Bellasis. She emphatically vetoed one or two names 
Bellasis suggested. She rose to the idea of Madge — whom 
he mentioned as perhaps hardly to be thought of. She 
thought that this little woman would do very nicely what 
was wanted, and being on her promotion would be only too 
glad to take her cue from Cecilia herself. The fact that his 
aunt — who was so hard to please — already liked Madge, was 
an argument which Cecilia could urge strongly on Bellasis 
in her favour. 

The thing was decided upon in a consultation as they 
came home from shooting. That conversation remained 


84 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


deeply graven on Cecilia’s mind in the months that followed. 
It was almost the last of those intimate talks on which her soul 
had lived and thriven. As she sat on the gate, gun in hand 
(Cecilia was an excellent shot) with a bright sun lighting up 
the wooded landscape, Bellasis had talked to her long and 
confidentially of one after another of his lady friends. As 
she felt his eyes rest on her, during intervals of silence, in 
half-amused admiration at her wonderful shooting costume, 
she had murmured to herself, “ O Temps, suspends ton vol ”. 
She had longed that the joy of those moments might remain 
with her for ever. The decision about Madge had seemed a 
mere episode — a way out of acquiescing in any more danger- 
ous arrangement. 

“ The little woman is a Roman Catholic, is she not ? ” 
Bellasis had asked. 

“ Yes, Madge Riversdale is of Irish blood and French 
education,” she had replied. 

“A bonne fille du convent?” he had inquired. 

“ Yes, but not oppressively strict. Her diet includes a 
good many gnats. But she would not look at a camel.” 

“There are women for whom camels have no attraction.” 

“That may account for it,” Cecilia had answered indiffer- 
ently. And that was all that was said of Madge. 

Lord Bellasis was enchanted with what proved to be the 
immense success of Cecilia’s notion. Madge had done per- 
fectly ; she had hit upon the exact medium between the real 
hostess and the mere visitor. She had relieved Lady 
Campion of all bores. She had saved her from the con- 
fidences of unavoidable mothers. She h'hd carried through 
school feasts, Primrose League fHes, harvest homes, with 
the least possible amount of boredom and the greatest pos- 
sible amount of credit to the lord of the castle. Then her 
practical talents had been invaluable. Nothing could have 
been smarter, better ordered, better chosen than all the 
details she suggested. And yet Madge had not seemed to 


A RETROSPECT. 


85 


interfere ; and certainly she and Lady Campion were the 
warmest of allies. Everybody found what they wanted 
everywhere without asking ; and of information Madge had 
an unlimited, never-failing supply. She knew where the 
best cigars and cigarettes were to be got, and Bellasis 
Castle, although Bellasis himself was no smoker, after her 
suggestions overflowed with them. She knew when all the 
trains left; and all the junctions that confused other people 
were plain sailing to her. She had won the heart of the old 
Scotch gardener, and more flowers were allowed to come up 
to the castle, and they were more often changed, than they 
had ever been before. She was most thoroughly happy and 
good-humoured. “ She had let the dead past bury its dead.” 
She was living de jour au jour exactly her ideal life. It was 
even more delightful, this life in the grand old castle, than 
she had imagined. Luxury here was more dignified than 
elsewhere — it seemed part of the air you breathed. Life had 
nothing little in this historic atmosphere ; and the least of 
the occupations and duties — school feasts or country neigh- 
bours to be entertained at lunch — were invested with the 
halo of great traditions. What then was her pleasure when 
she felt that it was her tact and carefulness, her thought and 
readiness that had helped to bring about the success of 
house-parties which included some of the greatest men and 
most interesting women of the day ! No wonder that Madge 
enjoyed herself. 

As Lord Bellasis became more and more pleased with his 
new friend, Cecilia became less and less so. And as Madge’s 
tact grew and developed in the warm, pleasant air she was 
living in, Cecilia seemed to become less discreet, less sweet- 
tempered, less urbane in almost the same proportion. A 
thousand times a day she cursed her own folly in her choice 
of Madge for the hostess at Bellasis. 

“ Lady M. must have gone home part of the time,” she 
muttered ; “ Mrs. D. would have been too fussy and annoyed 


86 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Bellasis ; Louie Harcourt has begun to bore him ; Ella 
would have tried to marry him to somebody and failed ; 
Dottie, or one of the other married ones, might have flirted 
with him herself — but what would that have mattered ? Lady 
Lena would have spent half the day in her room. This in- 
tolerable little thing never goes away and never bores him or 
makes a mistake ; and she isn’t straightforward I am sure. 
She really settled the ball week the moment she knew that 
I was engaged to the Percys, and then pretended to be 
miserable.” 

It was not one piece of successful diplomacy which ap- 
peared to Cecilia’s distorted vision to have come between her 
and her host, but a thousand obstacles, and in every instance 
she thought she could detect Madge’s influence. 

There were altogether five parties at Bellasis; two for 
grouse in August and September ; one in October ; one for 
Christmas ; and the last for a county ball at the beginning 
of January. Madge had been at Bellasis through September 
and October with only a week’s interlude ; then she had paid 
a number of visits between October and Christmas, and from 
Christmas until the ball she had again helped Lady Campion. 
After the ball she had seen that a return to her house in 
London was inevitable. 

Madge was in low spirits when she reached London. The 
interval of perfect enjoyment was over, and she had a natural 
misgiving that so unlikely an arrangement as that of the 
last few months would hardly be repeated. With all her 
care she had probably, she thought in this gloomy mood, 
made some enemies. One enemy she knew she had made. 

“ But then with Cecilia I had no choice, or rather I was 
obliged to choose between helping or hindering something 
serious.” 

Her house, though exquisitely furnished and in perfect 
order, looked gloomy enough to the little widow on her 
home-coming. She shivered as she crossed the threshold. 


A RETROSPECT. 


87 


Old thoughts and feelings seemed to have come down upon 
her, as though a heavy cloak had been put on her shoulders 
in the hall. There was nothing to find fault with, nothing 
but a very big heap of bills to distract her now. Also a note 
from the priest of her parish, whom she hardly knew, asking 
her if she wished to keep her seat in the church during the 
New Year. 

She was sitting over the fire as she read it before going 
up to bed. 

“ Why should he suppose that I wanted to give it up ? ” 
she had cried, with unreasonable irritation at the usual formal 
circular. 

She was feeling sad, lonely and deserted this evening. 
Her excitements were over; and really at Bellasis latterly 
she had not had quite the same sort of intense enjoyment 
as in September. 

“ All things wear out in this dull world,” she thought, “ I 
am aweary, aweary of it all.” 

And the weariness of that first home-coming, for which 
nobody had cared, had deepened during the days that 
followed. She went to the theatre, and the plays were 
slow ; she went to concerts, and she came to the conclusion 
that she was not really musical, which anybody else could 
have told her long ago. She went to the picture galleries, 
and though she could not say that she was not artistic, she 
could find the fatigue intolerable. She was in a mood in 
which a woman educated in a less vivid faith would have 
played with religion. On that subject Madge was un- 
comfortable, thoroughly uncomfortable. The diet of gnats, 
of which Cecilia had spoken, had given her some sort of 
moral indigestion. 

It occurred to her to ask her married sister to come from 
Scotland to stay with her, and she thought she would talk 
over some of the “ gnats ” with her. She felt sure that she 
would consider half of them scruples and tell her not to fuss. 


88 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


People had to live in the world, and behave as the world 
does. She counted on her sister to make her feel more 
comfortable and more able to go to confession again and to 
get spiritual comfort in services when she felt sad. And 
then she would not be nervous and afraid, as she was now, 
that she wasn’t as good as she might be ; and that it would 
be a bad look out if she should die of anything sudden or of 
an accident as people sometimes do. 

She had not seen this sister, who was a few years older 
than herself, for several years, and not since the elder one 
had married a man of good family, a quiet, out-of-the world, 
Scotch squire. Her sister, delighted, came up to stay with 
Madge, and found it very convenient to be there for her 
dentist, for visits to the stores, for seeing the pictures and 
for many things. She was full to overflowing with h^r own 
life and her own plans, and worst of all her own children and 
her husband’s children by his first marriage. She advised 
Madge in matters of economy because she was saving her 
own fortune for her children. She told her how much more 
particular she had grown as to religion, because a mother 
must give a good example. She was kind and sisterly in 
manner, and thought she was cheering Madge out of the 
exuberance of her own full life. But she could be of no real 
use. She wore the wrong clothes, she said the wrong things, 
she was inclined to take scandal, in fact the only good part 
about her was her anxiety to get home again as soon as she 
had stayed long enough to buy everything she wanted, from 
a perambulator to a carpet. 

“ Happily,” thought Madge, “ I have few friends in London 
just now.” But they were beginning to come soon after the 
unpresentable sister had left. Madge was delighted to find 
that a good many people were coming up for the opening of 
Parliament ; she hoped now to have enough going on to cure 
her of this tiresome sort of depression. And perhaps the 
lonely time she had been spending had made her morbid, for 


A RETROSPECT. 


89 


she was not satisfied with the many invitations and attentions 
she received. For, in spite of far better things than she had 
ever had before, and a certain acknowledged position which 
she had specially desired to win, she was disappointed. Her 
special goddesses, the little group of women who had been 
more than cordial to her at Bellasis, made her feel a subtle 
difference in London. Whether, as she soon came to believe, 
Cecilia was poisoning the wells, and an effort was being made 
to keep her out in the cold, or whether it was merely their 
natural habit to allow some people to come just so far and no 
farther in their intimacy, was uncertain. Anyhow she felt 
that her hope of having become one of that most exclusive 
group of charming and influential women was yet unattained. 
Once really o/them, her lonely life would have been brightened 
in a thousand ways, and the element of struggle to advance, 
or to retain, which seemed to her necessary in her single- 
handed existence, would have been over. 

At this time came the invitation to Skipton, and Madge 
decided to go there. This was the culminating moment of 
her low spirits. It was a day on which she had been startled 
and upset. Hearing of the accouchement of a young woman, 
a recent acquaintance, one of the “ nicest ” and “ smartest ” 
people she knew, Madge had driven to inquire for her and 
her baby. As she sat waiting for her footman to bring the 
butler’s message, Laura Hurstmonceauxcame out of thehouse. 

“Well,” said Madge, with the forced cheerfulness with 
which she habitually alluded to babies ; “ is it a nice little 
girl ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Laura quietly, “ then you have not heard ; it 
is dying, it can only live a few hours.” 

“ Has she seen it ? Does she know ? ” 

“ Yes, she saw it, but she heard the doctor say that it could 
not live, and she became unconscious. They were already 
alarmed about her. There seems now to be little hope for 
her. Where are you off to, Madge ? ” 


90 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Laura’s tone had been sufficiently, but not overpoweringly, 
sympathetic with the tragedy in the house she had just left. 
She was surprised at the amount of emotion on Madge’s face. 
Laura begged her to come back to tea with her. Madge would 
not. She said she had had a splitting headache all day, and 
they parted rather abruptly. 

The picture of what had passed in that house was too 
vivid to her. It had taken possession of her completely. 
She knew it all so well, the darkened room, the cautious 
tread, the white bundle that had been put by the mother’s 
side, the revelation and the loss of hope. 

“ And if I had died like that ! and if I had died like that ! ” 
she went on repeating to herself as she drove home. 

And that evening came the annual invitation to Skipton, 
which she had now twice refused, and she at once sat down 
and accepted it. Madge, after this, was several times on the 
point of making some excuse, of getting some plea for avoiding 
the visit. She would have been surprised if she had known 
how truly, according to her lights, Laura Hurstmonceaux 
had understood her behaviour. Laura had spoken freely to 
Lord Bellasis on the subject on the Monday night when he 
had dined with her. 

When Cecilia left them — after the little scene described in 
Laura’s letter to Madge — Laura and Lord Bellasis stood for 
a moment in the hall in silence. Then he smiled and said : — 

“ May I stay ? ” 

But when they were settled quietly by the drawing-room 
fire, he apparently had nothing special to say. 

“ You were rash to let me get into this perfect arm-chair,” 
he remarked in a dreamy voice ; “ I shall soon be asleep.” 

“ Then I can go to bed,” returned Laura, smiling. 

“ I was bored at finding Cecilia here to-night, but she has 
been amusing as usual.” 

Laura did not speak, she meant him to take his own time. 
To be the confidante of Lord Bellasis was a role worthy of 


A RETROSPECT. 


91 

the discretion on which she prided herself. How many of 
the ladies who hardly acknowledged Mrs. Hurstmonceaux as 
more than a mere acquaintance would have envied her the 
intimate relations with him that had been opened by his last 
letter ! 

A close observer might have seen that Lord Bellasis was 
affecting an ease he did not feel. Laura noticed that one of 
the feet in the old evening pumps — Lord Bellasis was always 
wearing things that were half worn out — gave a nervous 
quick movement which was unusual with him. 

He was a big man, large featured with heavy eyelids. He 
had had unusual physical powers, which he had, as a younger 
man, exposed to every strain. Perhaps he had overdone it, 
for he looked more than his forty years, and his friends 
observed in him at times a certain inertness that might be 
the result of reckless abuse of strength in his twenties. 

Laura had a few moments in which to wonder what this 
man’s character was really like, before he spoke again. 

“ Were you surprised at anything in my letter from Bellasis 
last week ? ” 

“ Yes and no,” said the lady. 

“ Deign to interpret,” answered Bellasis, a little amused at 
the diplomacy betrayed in this answer. 

“ No, because,” with a little glow of fervour, “ no admira- 
tion or warmer feeling for Madge could surprise me ; yes, 
because I had no notion of the state of your mind when I 
was at Bellasis those two days in October.” 

“ Nor had I,” answered Bellasis with a short laugh. “ The 
case is a simple one. I found it out when she left Bellasis 
after that last party. I can’t live there without her. You 
cannot think how stale and unprofitable it all became. Every 
room lacked her presence ; every meal with the others, without 
that sweet cheerfulness, that delicate tact and kindliness, was 
a penance. I went away to a country house party, and it was 
fun. Cecilia was there. But it only proved to me that I could 


92 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


not go on through another month without Madge. So you 
see why I wrote to you.” 

Laura bent forward and with a bright smile, answered : — 

“ No I don’t in the very least 

“ No, how should you ? ” he said, with a deep sigh. “ For 
if all were plain sailing I should not have asked your help. 
I have got to bore you by talking of myself before you can 
understand. May I ? ” 

Laura’s subtle face looked unutterable sympathy from the 
glance of the narrow eyes and the curve of her thin lips, even 
to the pose of the finely shaped chin. Bellasis seemed to 
full of gloomy thoughts to be quite conscious of her presence. 

“ I was once a young man — what an idiotic beginning — I 
mean I was once a younger son. My brother Bellasis and 
I were the only children. Our parents both died before I 
was eighteen and he was nineteen. We were old enough to 
go pretty much our own way. We both had a craze for 
travelling. His was more for the sake of climbing, mine 
for knowing all sorts and tribes of men. He was killed on 
a peak in Switzerland. Poor fellow, he was only twenty- 
two. But perhaps my mania brought a worse punishment. 
I fell in love with a Mexican beauty at a theatre in Florida. 
I married her; I divorced her after three years of untold 
misery ; and she is still alive.” 

“ What you must have suffered ! ” came in eloquent tones 
from the thrilled listener. 

Lord Bellasis waved his hand ; a little characteristic ges- 
ture, expressive of the fact that the listener was not expected 
to dwell on the personal element in the narrative. 

The man with whom she went away would not marry 
her. He said that she drank ; which was true. I provided 
for her in a convent, where they are wonderfully good to her. 
But they will persist in writing of her as my wife. It is part 
of their narrow creed. Well, I have put the matter aside for 
fifteen years ; except that I always pay the allowance myself 


A RETROSPECT. 


95 


and make conventional inquiries to satisfy the nuns. But 
now it has come up again. For I feel bound to let Mrs. 
Riversdale know that I am what is kindly called ‘ an innocent 
divorcee ’. As a Roman Catholic she cannot marry me. Of 
course I might propose first and tell her afterwards, but I 
don’t think that would be fair.” 

He hesitated for a moment. Then looking at Laura, he 
said firmly : — 

“Now do you think I must give up all hope? for she 
would have to abandon her religious prejudices for my sake ”. 

“ Oh, no, don’t say that,” came in soft tones from Laura, 
“surely, surely, something might be arranged. The 
priests ” 

“Impossible, my dear lady,” answered Bellasis, “they 
can’t do it. History would have been different if they could.” 

Laura was most anxious to avoid anything so unpleasing 
and crude as the situation Bellasis was preparing. Besides 
if he spoke to Madge in that way, how could she accept him ? 
It would be so undignified and put her in quite a wrong 
position. The thing could be worked far better than that. 

“ In these days. Lord Bellasis, I assure you it is all so 
different. The priests are so much wider than they used to 
be. You must not judge by those narrow Spanish nuns. 
Besides, Catholics always say more than they mean. They 
are taught to do it, to preserve their oral traditions.” 

Bellasis looked mystified. But he perceived that he had 
not treated the situation with tact. And he was ready to give 
her her lead. 

“ Well,” he said, “ if you can manage it all the better. 
Personally I don’t want to destroy her religious belief if we 
can avoid it. Her quaint, mediaeval sort of view of things is 
part of her attraction, and gives one the confidence one can’t 
but feel in her.” 

He paused, and Laura was also silent. Then he went on, 
a little impatience being betrayed in his voice : — 


94 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ What do you suppose has taken her down to Skipton just 
now ? Couldn’t you have prevented it? ” 

“ I did try to stop it, and if I had known what you have 
just told me, I would have tried still harder. But I am not 
sure that I much regret my failure to do so.” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Lord Bellasis irritably. 

“ It is an experiment, I own. But, my friend, events that 
we have dreaded most, often prove to have worked better 
for us than we could have worked for ourselves.” 

“ In this case I cannot see how a rapprochement with 
those old-world Roman Catholics can be — well,” with a 
short laugh, “ of use, to say the least of it.” 

“ Don’t you see,” said Laura, speaking earnestly, “ that if, 
as I expect, the visit is a great failure, it will really help her 
to finish that chapter of her past more completely than if she 
had never been there. She has had a hankering after the 
place, an uneasy feeling about it. She told me once, in a fit 
of the dumps, that the old squire there was her truest friend 
in the world, if not the only one. Then you know,” Laura 
lowered her voice, “ she had a baby and, though she has 
never told me, I am sure that it must be buried there.” 

“ Then I consider this visit to be absolutely fatal,” cried 
Lord Bellasis. 

“ How unreasonable you are,” said Laura quietly, “and,” 
with a smile, “ how rude to interrupt me ! ” 

She busied herself smoothing the lace of her fan as she 
spoke and relapsed into silence. 

“ I beg a million pardons. I am all penitence. You talk 
like a book, and a very subtle book. But you know I belong 
to everyday life.” 

Bellasis took a low stool, and sat himself not ungracefully 
almost at her feet. Laura went on : — 

“ All this would have left a halo about Skipton as long as 
distance lent enchantment to the view. I shrewdly suspect 
that by this time to-morrow she will be disillusioned.” 


A RETROSPECT. 


95 


Laura looked up at the clock as she spoke. “ You see, my 
dear sir, she has travelled miles and miles away from them 
in these two years. She has become a member of the 
habitable globe we live in. She can’t go back and be as 
if she had never known the world at all. It will be the evapo- 
ration of a little sentiment, and that will be wholesome.” 

“ Let us hope so ; but what do you suppose was the 
immediate cause of her going there ? ” 

“ I think it was the death of Mrs. Wakefield and her baby. 
The logic is not clear, but Madge is not logical. She was 
crying the day on which the baby died, and Mrs. Wakefield 
had not been an intimate friend of hers. Oh, it was a serre- 
ment de coeur^ a little burst of the religious and the maternal 
sentiment. The deaths supplied a sort of meditation. It 
was la morale en action to a woman who had been brought 
up in a convent. I think she intended to make her soul to 
some priest down at Skipton. Let her do it quietly, and 
come back to life and enjoyment. She can’t go on mourning 
for the baby, and she will have had a surfeit of piety.” 

“ Now,” said Bellasis, rising restlessly, — and moving to- 
wards the chimneypiece he leant one hand upon it, — “ we 
come to the point. I’ve not told you this simply because 
you are the only woman I know who can keep a secret, but 
because I want you to do something for me.” 

Laura was quietly attentive, and in a moment he con- 
tinued : — 

“ I want you to tell my story to Mrs. Riversdale for me 

“ But, my dear Lord Bellasis ” Laura looked troubled. 

“ Is it too much to ask ? ” He flushed a little. 

“No indeed,” cried Laura, “ I would do far more for my 
friends than that. Only how can you think that that is the 
way to persuade her ? Won’t you tell her yourself— use your 
own influence with her ? ” 

“ That is just what I don’t wish to do. I might not com- 
mand myself. I should go too far. I think she ought to 


g6 ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 

know, she ought to have time to think of it quietly before 
” he hesitated. 

Laura felt in his tone the self-will and obstinacy of a man 
who was rarely contradicted. She was sure that he was 
making a mistake. She would far rather have thrown them 
together for a few weeks while she prepared Madge’s mind 
by a general treatment, and then left him to do the real 
work. If Madge heard the story in cold blood and from 
another woman, it was much more likely to fail. However, 
to satisfy Lord Bellasis, and to have the full and practical 
advantage of his friendship, was really the important point. 
And so the colloquy ended in Laura accepting the r^le of 
ambassador. 

After he had said “ good-night” and left the room, Laura 
stood by the fire and began to think over the situation, when 
he suddenly reappeared, his dark sunburnt complexion having 
turned to a deeper red, his manner hesitating, and yet not 
undignified. 

“ Do you think,” he said, “ that she at all thinks of me — 
in short, could be in love with me ? ” 

“ I can’t tell,” said Laura, “ she is without doubt deeply 
interested in you and ” 

“ And what ? ” 

“ She can’t endure the idea of your caring for anybody else.” 

“ Thank you, thank you. It is such a mercy that I know 
she would not marry me unless she could really care, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” cried the astonished Laura, and he again 
left her, this time not to return. 

“ Does he think that Bellasis Castle, and all that it in- 
volves, has no charms for our dear Madge ? ” thought Laura, 
and she broke into a heartier and more natural laugh than 
she had enjoyed for many a long day. It struck her as a 
touch of true comedy. 

She ruminated for a few minutes and then wrote the letter 
which we saw Madge read at Skipton. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DAME MARY RIVERSDALE’S PORTRAIT. 

Mark Fieldes, when he left the billiard-room after his talk 
with Madge, sauntered down the passage into the hall. The 
hall was by far the most striking part of the house. It was 
wainscotted in oak, and decorated with the heads and horns 
of various animals, and portraits of their murderers. These 
last, though of varying merit as to art, all presented fine, 
large figures of active, well-made men, with something of 
marked nobility and distinction in their physique. Few of 
them had been specially prominent before the world, in days 
when nearly all public careers had been closed to Catholics, 
but among them there had been men of blameless honour, 
of warm affections, unworldly. God-fearing, country-loving 
Englishmen, albeit under the ban of that country’s direst 
proscriptive laws. 

Mary was sitting on a low oak chest playing with a 
very fine collie, who was struggling to lick her face while 
his paws rested on her knees. She was laughing heartily, 
a clear laugh, rather too loud perhaps, but joyous ; and Fieldes 
smiled at her in a paternal manner. 

“ Are you waiting for Father Clement ? ” he inquired. 

“Yes,” she said, “and he and mother are having such a 
long talk that we shall not have time for him to do half as 
many cottages as he hopes.” 

“ He does not look like a great talker,” observed Fieldes, 
sitting down on a low bench opposite her. 

“ No, but he is a good listener,” said Mary without intended 

(97) 7 


98 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


sarcasm, “ though I think his silence is sometimes very 
alarming. He does not consider it at all necessary to talk» 
I have known him sit in the drawing-room half an hour 
without saying a word.” 

“ After all,” said Fieldes, “ it is quite a European notion 
that silence is rude.” 

“ Once,” continued Mary, who was drawn to talk to Fieldes 
as wefe all children and unselfconscious beings, “ he did not 
speak for an hour and a half. He had had a telegram to say 
that his father was dying, and he came into the drawing-room 
after breakfast and told mother that he must go away by the 
11.30 train, and then he stood on the hearthrug and did not 
speak again till the carriage came round. No one spoke for 
more than an hour, and Father Clement stood looking in 
front of him as if there were no one there ; yet I think he 
understood how sorry we were.” 

“ What a striking picture. It reminds me of St. Louis and 
St. Francis. Do you know how St. Louis went to see St. 
Francis ? If not, let me tell you the story.” 

“ Oh, do, please ! ” said Mary. 

Fieldes smiled and began. He liked telling this fair fresh 
country girl a story as if she were quite a little child. 

“ Once upon a time Louis the king went to see Francis the 
friar,” and so he went on to the end of the episode, almost 
in Ruskin’s words — words so marvellously adapted for con- 
veying the spirit of the “ Fioretti ” of St. Francis. He told 
how the king journeyed many miles to see the friar, and how 
when the two saints met neither spoke one word to the other. 

“ Both,” said Mark, with a little tremor in his voice, “ were 
lost in God. Their souls met and mingled together in a 
communion so close that earthly speech would have been 
only an interruption. Then they parted without words, but 
full of joy, and never met again.” 

He was silent for a moment after that, suppressing an 
allusion to the Buddhist Nirvana which had risen to his lips. 


DAME MARY RIVERSDALE’S PORTRAIT. 


99 


“What a pretty story," said Mary, chiefly because she 
didn’t know what else to say. She was puzzled by a strange, 
“ Protestant, very clever man" (everybody who was not a 
Catholic was a Protestant in Mary’s eyes), talking about the 
saints in this way. Then the facility with which he spoke 
of the Holiest tried the reserve which comes with the deepest 
reverence. 

“ After all," said Fieldes, “ there is something in it. ‘ Keep 
ye on earth your lips from over speech 

“ Is that from the Bible ? " Mary inquired. 

A low laugh, and a voice such as he had never heard before, 
made Fieldes look up. 

“ Swinburne, is it not ? " said the monk walking across the 
hall. It is difficult to describe the quality given to a voice 
by habitual disuse. It has a kind of peculiar distinctness 
which is not disagreeable, though it conveys some sense of 
effort. 

Mary introduced Mr. Fieldes, and Father Clement turned 
and spoke again. ^ 

“ I have read your books with interest," he said. “You 
see much that is true, but you don’t look it in the face. I 
was sorry for Phidias in your novel, but then so were you. 
I believe in dogma which is strangely old-fashioned, but that 
is too wide a topic at this moment. Will you come and talk 
to me at the priest’s house ? " 

The smile which lit up the wintry face and deep brown 
eyes was like the sunshine that was lingering on the snowy 
ground without. It won Fieldes, while the quaint bluntness 
of the speech amused him. He responded warmly, but Father 
Clement seemed to have no more to say. There was a silence 
of half a minute ; then he and Mary got into the pony carriage. 
Mary took the reins, and they drove off. 

A moment later Hilda appeared, and Mark was not sorry 
to find that she was to be his only companion in their after- 
noon walk. Their Ute-a-Ute seemed all too short when 


lOO 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda brought him in for tea at five. Mark remained in the 
drawing-room until Madge had finished her own rather late 
tea. He thought she seemed absent as she talked to him. 
After she had left the room he once more wandered 
through the house, looking at pictures and trophies. An 
interesting though not a large collection of old books, quite 
half of them belonging to the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, and printed at Douay or Antwerp, occupied a good 
deal of his time. The Disposition and Garnishment of the 
Soule (date 1596) kept him for some time. He read with wistful 
sympathy the wail of the Catholic writer over the extinction of 
the tapers in all the churches of his native land, symbolic of 
the extinction of the light of the faith ; the account of Eng- 
land, frost-bound with the chill of heresy. Then from the 
picture of Dr. Riversdale, the friend of Cardinal Allen, and 
the picture of his brother, Riversdale of Skipton, the Eliza- 
bethan martyr, from the old letters preserved in the Museum, 
written by Edgar Riversdale, the faithful follower of Charles 
I., from his picture and that of William Riversdale, the 
builder of the present house, he constructed for himself with 
great imaginative pleasure the romantic story of the race. 
He had spent several hours before coming to Skipton in 
reading Dod’s history and other records of the chequered 
career of the Old Catholics, and these pictures and documents 
in a moment gave actuality to the story and made it concrete. 
And then he turned back to the modern pictures in the hall of 
Riversdales and Lemarchants mounted on well-bred horses 
and clad in red coats, and looked again at the three brushes 
which Madge had shown him — the trophies of Mary’s success 
in the hunting field during the past two years. 

“ Yes ; that is the aspect given in Macaulay’s account of 
the Catholic squires,” he reflected. “An interesting blend. 
Heroic devotion to the cause of their faith, and yet the qualities 
most obvious are not those of the mystic, but of the manly 
out-of-doors sportsman, who may seem to be nothing more 


DAME MARY RIVERSDALE’S PORTRAIT. lOI 

than a bluff Englishman who rides to hounds and does his 
ordinary duties. Yet one of these red-coated cavaliers would, 
I haven’t the least doubt, if occasion called for it, show himself 
capable of the very highest heroism. Men of action, I should 
say, and not of reflection. And that charming girl whom I first 
saw in the riding habit — though her face might be that of a 
mystic — she is like the rest, simple, open-hearted, riding to 
hounds with the pluck of her uncles, and ready no doubt any 
day to be martyred for the faith, and to regard it as the per- 
formance of simple duty, and nothing to boast of. A race I 
should say of few words, but of brave deeds. The priests 
ready to die for the Church, the cavaliers for the king.” 

On the first floor there was a picture gallery with more 
family pictures — chiefly of the ladies of the family. Here 
was the Dame Riversdale who had sheltered Charles II. 
after Worcester (where her own husband had just fallen), 
and had contrived his escape in disguise while Cromwell’s 
soldiers were actually in the house. Here was Mistress 
Riversdale who died in exile in attendance on the queen of 
James II. 

Mark was still standing in the long narrow gallery, when 
Mary came upon him, a little out of breath from running 
upstairs two steps at a time. She had been for a gallop 
after her drive with Father Clement and was in her habit 
and holding her hat and whip in one hand. Her hair was 
tumbled about her face by the wind, and one long fair plait 
fell over her shoulder. She seemed singularly full of health 
and strength, and her golden hair had brought back some 
sunshine into the darkening house. She was as usual a 
little shy. 

“ I have been looking at the pictures,” said Mark, “ but it 
is getting too dark to see much.” 

“ Have you looked at that one ? ” she asked, pointing with 
her whip to a portrait Mark had not noticed. “ I believe it 
was painted by a Flemish artist.” 


102 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


The information was given in a voice that sounded a little 
weary of necessary civility to a guest. Even in the dim 
light Mark saw that the picture was artistically of far nobler 
origin than its companions. Yet they were of silk-robed and 
jewelled dames, and this was of a sober-hued nun. It was 
far more characteristic of the family history, this picture, 
than the others. What there was common to nearly all, 
the nun included, was a strong likeness to the young girl in 
her riding habit who was now pointing to the Flemish 
portrait. They nearly all, Mary included, had the high, 
narrow, purely white foreheads, the open fearless eyes, the 
wide simple mouths, the well set neck and shoulders. But 
the expression on the nun’s face was more complex. The 
Flemish artist had been a true genius ; he had painted her 
probably for his own satisfaction, had (may be) asked as a 
favour in return for his charities to the convent to paint the 
high-bred elderly lady from over seas. The face he had 
depicted was worn and wrinkled, and the light that he had 
put into the great blue open eyes was almost contradicted 
by the struggle in the mouth. 

Mary Riversdale waited in polite silence while he looked 
at it. 

“ How like you, and yet how utterly unlike you,” were the 
words he suppressed, as he turned from the great-great-great- 
great-aunt to the niece, in her buoyant youth and strength. 

“ What was her story ? ” he asked. 

“ It is told,” she answered, “among the ‘death-bills’ of 
the Benedictine nuns. Dame Mary Riversdale was filled 
with the wish to save souls, so she fled over seas to the 
convent in Flanders to offer up her life to pray for England. 
There she fell ill and was not able to keep the rule and work 
with the other nuns. So she prayed that she might have 
some suffering greater than the penance she could not keep 
on account of her health. And the next day, so says the 
death-bill, she fainted, and it was found that she had a mortal 


DAME MARY RIVERSDALE’S PORTRAIT. IO3 

illness, with terrible pain, which she bore bravely for three 
years, and then died in repute of great sanctity.” 

So far the informant in a dull monotony of voice. The 
increasing darkness almost hid the suffering face in the rich 
mellow colouring of the background of the Flemish picture, 
while the face of the girl, with its vigour and brilliant 
colouring, became almost equally indiscernible. Mark heard 
an impatient sigh. 

“ I ought not to bore you with so many questions,” he said. 
“ But what a strange sad story of spiritual patriotism.” 

“ It was specially for a near relation of her own who had 
conformed to the Protestant religion that she offered her life 
— for her brother. It doesn’t bore me, Mr. Fieldes; but do 
you know, ever since I was a little child and used to come 
down the passage to mother’s room, I have disliked that 
picture. I used to wish that I had never been called Mary.” 

“ And now ? ” he said, venturing a little too far in the tone 
of greater intimacy. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” Mary answered almost brusquely, and 
walked away, leaving him to try and decipher the dim glance 
of that strange heroine, who had prayed for physical suffering 
and who was of the same root and stock as Mary Riversdale. 

“Wonderful survival,” thought Mark, as his thoughts 
passed from aunt to niece. “ Instinct with the health and 
life of this world and of to-day ; and yet beyond doubt sealed 
with the stamp of mediaeval sanctity and other worldliness. 
She could devote herself as absolutely as the nun of the picture. 
Yet she would hunt, her whole soul intent on the fences and 
gates and hounds, until the moment for suffering arrived. 
She belongs less to thi^ world than her cousin, though the 
cousin has more mind, and less capacity for dealing with 
matter. Both of them are heiresses — and likely to be run 
after — but this one seems hardly made for human love.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 

Marmaduke waited for some time in his uncle’s study, to 
catch him for a few moments’ private talk, on Wednesday 
morning. It was a large south room, and the sun seemed 
to have reduced everything in it to a neutral tint. A general 
impression of colourless leather prevailed ; — large oak writ- 
ing-tables, with tops of faded morocco, arm-chairs not too 
luxurious in shape of the same hue, queer old water-colour 
caricatures of absurd incidents in the hunting field, hanging 
between maps of the county ; bookcases filled with large worn 
volumes on law and sport, reference books that had once been 
red ; and dull but imperishable Turkey carpets. All was in 
perfect order ; even the walking-sticks and fishing-rods in one 
corner did not look untidy. There was nothing to distinguish 
it from the business room of any other large landlord and 
active English magistrate except the ivory crucifix upon his 
own writing-table and the silver holy water stoup hanging 
by the door. 

The squire when he came into the room did not see that 
Marmaduke was sitting in a distant window reading the 
Times. It struck his nephew afresh, as he watched him 
cross the room and sit down heavily on the chair by the 
writing-table, how rapidly his uncle had aged during the 
years of his absence. A sharp sigh and a few words mut- 
tered to himself showed that he thought he was alone. 

“ Thy Will ... on earth as ” Marmaduke caught 

the broken sounds and rustled the Times in his hand. Mr. 

(104) 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 


105 


Riversdale raised his head and looked round. Unconsciously 
he began to speak in the same words he had used when he 
first saw Marmaduke in London after his return from India. 

“ Glad to be back in the old country, eh, Marmaduke ? 
Going to settle down, I hope. You’ll have plenty to do, you 
know — they tell me you’ll have a time of it with the small 
farmers round you. Just fancy what I saw the other day, 
and near here too ; they must think I am getting old. We 
were after a fine fox, had a splendid run all through the 
Cartchester country — the fox was creeping up a thick hedge, 
hounds scenting the field below and just going to follow him 
up. I could see it all from the other side of the dell — when 
a brute of a farmer came through a gate and shot the 
poor creature dead. So cruel, so cruel ! well I daresay 
I’ve told it you before, but you see it does make a man 
angry.” 

Mr. Riversdale paused, then began again : — 

“Yes, you will have plenty to do — you know that agent of 
your father’s isn’t up to the mark — not up to the mark. If 
he were more like Smith now — but you couldn’t find many 
like Smith I’ll own.” 

“ I met Smith last week,” said Marmaduke. “ If you 
don’t mind I will just tell you what he said to me.” 

“Yes, yes, go on,” answered Mr. Riversdale. 

Marmaduke made an effort to begin. He was standing 
now in a window near the table looking out on the carriage 
sweep. 

“ There was one thing Smith spoke of — it seems that Smith 
has not yet paid a bill of three years ago, from Druce, of 
;fi200 for drawing-room furniture which must clearly be 
Madge’s own affair. He wants to send it to her and to re- 
present to her what sacrifices the family have already made 
to prevent her being applied to.” 

For a moment Mr. Riversdale was silent. Then he spoke 
in a voice that reminded Marmaduke of the days of his boy- 


io6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


hood, when he had been greatly in awe of Uncle George’s 
mighty tones when angry. 

“ Tell Smith that that is a subject not to be reopened. 
He can let the shooting in Lancashire or we can sell near 
here. For what was spent during my son’s lifetime I am 
responsible. As to what she has done since then, she must 
see to it herself.” 

He took up his pen as if to conclude the subject, and 
Marmaduke moved away, wishing to leave the room, when 
his uncle stopped him. 

“ He was right to tell you and you were right to tell me, 
my boy. Now, stop a moment — after all,” and the last words 
seemed to be addressed to himself, “ we can’t wash our hands 
of it that way.” 

Marmaduke sat down and waited. 

“ You’ve seen more of her this year than we have, met her 
in the Highlands, didn’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, and in the south also, and in London,” said Marma- 
duke. 

“ And you are friends I can see. Well, now tell me : she 
is not in a right way, is she ? Is it a very fast set she is in 
or why does she wear those clothes and smoke and read 
French novels? But it isn’t one thing or another; it is 
more the way she does them, and the whole look of the 
woman. I can’t say I’m happy about her.” 

“ I think she did get into a bad set at first,” answered 
Marmaduke, “ the set they saw something of before George’s 
death. But the people she meets at Bellasis are better — 
though of course they are worldly.” 

“Well, I don’t understand these things, but you’d hardly say 
that she lives as a Catholic young woman should, would you ? ” 

There was the humility of age admitting that the younger 
man knew more of the world of to-day ; and there was also 
in the speech the full confidence he felt in appealing to 
Marmaduke’s judgment. 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 10/ 

“No,” admitted Marmaduke unwillingly, “she doesn’t 
look easy in her mind.” 

His uncle went on : — 

“ Do you think she wants to marry a Protestant ? ” 

“ I haven’t any idea of anything of that kind,” answered 
Marmaduke. “ Of course she does live entirely among 
Protestants now, but I’ve got the impression that she does 
not want to marry again.” 

“ Mary has got a notion into her head that there is some 
immediate danger. She had it out with Father Clement 
yesterday. Poor child, she was disappointed because he 
would not try to meet Madge. He didn’t give Mary any help' 
about it. Perhaps he is hurt. I don’t know,” with a sigh, 
“ perhaps he is right, — no use forcing things. He says he 
has got very little faith in external applications; best to leave 
it alone. He never had much tact, and he might put her 
back up.” He paused, and then went on, half to himself: 
“ Only a guess of Mary’s after all. One doesn’t quite see 
what it can be just now — unless it is to marry a Protestant 
who won’t give the conditions.” Then speaking more 
distinctly to Marmaduke : “ Anyhow Madge isn’t safe leadings 
that life. She is not like an English girl of our sort. She 
might have been different perhaps,” his voice faltered, “ if 
she had had a strong hand to guide her. We shall hear of 
her getting into some scrape.” He stopped again and then 
went on : “ Are you to be in London now ? Well, then, see 
something of her, keep an eye on her. I am glad she is- 
here and I don’t suppose she will stay less than a week. 
I want to make it nice for her. I want her to come 
again.” 

“ Couldn’t you talk to her a little, Uncle George? ” said 
Marmaduke, getting up ; “ she is really fond of you.” 

“ I’ll try, but I doubt how she will take it. She used to 
be very much taken up with Father Clement, but she wa& 
quite rude to him yesterday. Poor child I Poor child ! She 


io8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


did better in the first days of her trials. It is not for any 
one who knows the past in this house to throw a stone at 
her.” 

Marmaduke, on leaving his uncle, went to have a talk with 
the gamekeeper. He did not mean to shoot to-day, but he 
wanted to know which fields they were to walk over on the 
morrow, and he wished to make friends with the functionary 
in question — a new importation since his former visits to 
Skipton. He then returned to the house and had been 
standing for a moment at the drawing-room window when 
his attention was drawn to three figures on the lawn which 
stretched along the side of the house and was divided by a 
ha-ha from the park beyond. Madge and Hilda and Mr. 
Fieldes had come out together and dawdled along the path 
chatting pot very briskly; Madge was not talking and, from 
time to time, glanced at the windows. Then she left the 
other two and walked away to the shrubbery of evergreens 
that spread out beyond the farther side of the house. 

Marmaduke stood for quite twenty minutes, with a news- 
paper in his hand, but his eyes fixed on Fieldes and Hilda 
as they paced up and down the path. Hilda was listening 
eagerly, excitedly turning her eyes, lit up with thought, to 
Fieldes, who was talking with evident enjoyment and looked 
more of a man than when he gossiped with Madge. Mar- 
maduke felt excessively annoyed. 

“What things girls are,” he thought; “Hilda, so well 
brought up and kept out of vulgar nonsense, flings herself at 
the head of the first man she meets, just because he can talk. 
She knows nothing of his character, and if she had eyes in 
her head she would see that he is a snob. They oughtn’t 
to have that sort of unbelieving writing man here at all. 
Well, what are they going to do next, putting their heads 
together over some manuscript, consulting about what he 
writes. I shouldn’t mind anything so much if he weren’t 
such a d d humbug. What’s his object in jawing away 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 


109 


about nuns and the Grande Chartreuse, and going to the 
schools ? If Hilda had any money I should understand it ; 
if she had Mary’s fortune for instance.” 

But at last he felt rather foolish standing at the window, 
doing nothing, and he went back into the room, where he 
wrote several letters with a melancholy countenance. They 
were addressed to a Catholic army chaplain, to a former 
brother officer, to several privates, and were chiefly concerned 
with various charitable undertakings, schemes for helping 
soldiers’ wives, temperance leagues, etc., for he had thrown 
himself heartily into all that very large work which is carried 
on by her Majesty’s officers of all denominations. Marma- 
duke had been found particularly useful in dealing with his 
Irish and English co-religionists, and it was a part of his trial 
in giving up the army that he had to bid farewell to many 
friendly fellow-workers. He had just finished a letter to a 
sergeant (in answer to a magnificent effusion he had received 
from him that morning, stating in grandiloquent language 
his own remarkable perseverance in the virtue of temperance) 
when Fieldes came into the room to fetch a book. Marmaduke 
thereupon walked out on to the lawn where, as he expected, 
he found Hilda pacing up and down. She was reading some 
printers’ proofs with great absorption. 

“ What have you got there ? Are you going to bring out 
a novel ? ” said Marmaduke, trying not to look cross. 

“ No,” answered Hilda; “it is an essay by Mr. Fieldes,”^ 
and she looked down again at the proofs in her hand. It was 
evident to Marmaduke that she did not want to be disturbed 
by him, perceiving which did not tend to sweeten his temper. 
He walked by her side for a moment, in silence, reflecting 
that she looked distractingly pretty, with her head bent over 
those wretched proofs. 

“ Have you read all the other things Fieldes has written ? ” 
he inquired presently. ^ 

“ Oh, yes,” said Hilda abstractedly. Then she added with 


no 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


condescension : “ He writes exquisitely, why don’t you read 
them ? ” 

“ Because I don’t care for attacks on the faith and risque 
stories,” said Marmaduke hotly. 

Hilda stopped short in her walk and turned round upon 
him with flashing eyes and heightened colour. 

“ How can you say anything so unfair, so untrue, so 
odious ! ” Then with a grand air of indifference she turned 
back to her reading. 

“ Well, then,” said Marmaduke, “ let me see it.” 

“ Certainly not,” she answered with less dignity and more 
temper. “ It is an unpublished work that has been confided 
to me by the author.” 

“ And do you suppose he would mind my seeing what he 
has confided to you ? Then he must feel guilty indeed.” 

This was an ingenious turn to give to the argument and 
Hilda felt half inclined to let him glance at the essay, knowing 
that he would not read it ; but the title “ Faith in its Decline,” 
and the opening, an eloquent lament over the impossibility 
of belief in these latter days, might startle him. How could 
one explain to an ordinary young man like Marmaduke how 
thoroughly Fieldes appreciated the beauties of the Catholic 
Church and yearned to be able to believe in it. Her confusion 
was evident and he pressed his advantage. 

“ I don’t think it is honourable for a man like that to stay 
here and to play with your faith with his infidel notions.” 

“ Infidel ! ” said Hilda with fine scorn, “he is an Agnostic! 
I suppose yow will call him a modern Voltaire.” 

“ Well I don’t know much about ‘ Hagnostics,’ as my friend 
the learned sergeant calls them, but it seems to me they come 
to much the same conclusion practically. However, pray tell 
me what an Agnostic is.” 

Hilda sighed and put the proofs under her arm with an air 
of exemplary pati^ce. 

“An Agnostic,^'' she began; but then she hesitated and 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 


Ill 


flushed and tried to think how she could explain enough for 
Marmaduke to understand. She did not venture on the 
derivation of the word because as to the dead languages 
Marmaduke knew more than she did. It was tiresome to 
find it so difficult to explain. This evident difficulty delighted 
Marmaduke so much that it nearly restored his good temper. 
“An Agnostic,” she said at length, “is a man who knows 
nothing.” 

“ I see,” said Marmaduke, “ a complete ignoramus ; poor 
Fieldes, that is rather too hard I ” 

“ You really are too aggravating ! ” exclaimed Hilda, “ I 
wish you would ” but turning round she saw such hand- 

some laughing eyes and such good-humoured teasing in their 
expression, that her priggish mood vanished and she laughed 
heartily. 

“Now,” said Marmaduke gaily, “instead of ‘proofing’ your 
affection for Mr. Fieldes come and let us have a row on the 
pond.” 

No lecture could have done as much as that very poor pun. 
“ ‘ Affection ’ for Mr. Fieldes indeed ! ” Hilda tossed her head 
magnificently. Then it was a fine day ; and she loved row- 
ing ; and she was fond of dirty ponds and Marmaduke would 
think her selfish if she refused. So they walked off across 
the lawn. Marmaduke jumped down the ha-ha and held out 
his hand to Hilda. She jumped airily down ; but what were 
the feelings of Mr. Fieldes who was watching them from his 
bedroom window and who did not know that the ha-ha was 
dry, to see many white sheets fluttering in disorder to the 
ground as she jumped ! She had quite forgotten that the proofs 
were under her arm. He watched them pick up the pages and 
saw that Hilda, who had looked distressed at first, was soon 
laughing. The young man was evidently making a comic 
show of apprehension and pretending to hide under the ha-ha. 
“ Really,” thought Fieldes, “he is an absurd sort of person I 
quite intolerable. And what a silly school-girl he makes her 


II2 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


look ! ” Marmaduke then bounded up the ha-ha and went 
into the house with the proofs. A moment later he had 
rejoined Hilda, and they were walking off to the pond. 

What had become of Madge when she left Fieldes and 
Hilda on the lawn ? 

Madge had said to herself only yesterday that she had so 
many things to do at Skipton that she could not spare time 
to go out with Mark and Hilda. Yet, as so often happens 
in the best planned afternoons, nothing had been done, un- 
less indeed account be taken of the smoking of a cigarette, 
the absorption of a marron glace^ the shedding of a few tears, 
and the reading of a gossiping letter. These were not the 
actions that Madge had intended to do at Skipton, and so 
there was evidently still much to be done. Why then dawdle 
away half Wednesday morning talking to Hilda and Mr. 
Fieldes, and why now stroll listlessly into the shrubbery ? 

Madge looked back at the big, square building behind her. 
She looked at it earnestly, as if her mind were dwelling on 
what was going on within it. It was so ; but her thoughts 
did not dwell on any part of the house that has yet been 
spoken of. Nor did she think of the housekeeper’s room, 
where that dignified functionary was explaining some detail 
of the list of the linen in the endless length of cupboards 
before them to Mrs. Riversdale, who ought by rights to have 
been still in bed, and whose unnecessary victory over that 
weakness of the flesh bronchitis, had not added sweetness 
to her temper. Yet if she had seen into the room in question, 
she would have gained some information which she wanted. 
She would have seen Mary go into the room and stand wait- 
ing while Mrs. Riversdale was saying : — 

“ Yes, Thomson, of course the linen is old, but if it only 
had proper work put into it, — this,” taking up a fine towel 
and pointing scornfully to a patch, “ this is not darning at 
all ; this is ” words failed. 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 


II3 

“Yet I’ve taught and taught those girls till I’m sick of 
it,” said Thomson with only partially suppressed irritation. 
“ ITl just fetch you what was done in the housemaid’s 
room yesterday, ma’am, and you shall judge of it, for its 
no use my speaking.” 

She left the room and Mary seized her opportunity. 

“ Mother, may I have the key of the vault ? ” 

“ The vault ? ” said Mrs. Riversdale in surprise. “ Why 
do you want to go to the vault ? ” 

“ I should like to have the key,” said Mary evasively. 

“ Why ? ” asked her mother. 

She spoke with authority, and Mary, with slightly puckered 
mouth, answered : — 

“ I think Madge would like to go into the vault, and she 
will be shy of asking for the key, and she is out walking now, 
and if I might just leave the door open she could slip in and 
” she hesitated. 

Mrs. Riversdale turned away. 

“ Madge will ask me for the key if she wants it,” she said, 
not very graciously. 

Mary came up to her. 

“Mother, dear, do let me have it, only to please me, 
mother.” 

The loving face that still held for her mother the baby’s 
look, produced its inevitable effect, and Mary went off witJx 
the key before Thomson came back. 

Mrs. Riversdale sighed deeply. It was a great effort to 
part with the key : it seemed as if she were letting in an 
irreverent glare upon her sacred places. 

Mary meanwhile walked quickly and nervously along the 
great brick tiled passage into which the servants’ offices 
opened. It was no unusual sight to see her there on some 
quest of food or help of some kind for man, horse or dog. 
But the butler, as he paused in eloquent condemnation of a 
footman who had been caught playing a concertina in the 

8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


II4 

morning, and the stillroom-maid, who hoped that Miss Mary 
had not heard exactly what she had been saying to the girl 
who had broken the milk-jug, and the cook, who was con- 
cluding a bargain as to her private supply of spirits with the 
local grocer, all these, and others, watched the fair girl go 
down the broad passage in the changing light and shadow 
as she passed the doorway of pantry, stillroom and kitchen, 
and all wondered kindly what had come over Miss Mary’s 
pretty face. 

Mary felt a nervous excitement, and a sense almost of 
guilt, in the daring of having made a plot which she had 
wished to conceal even from her mother. She walked very 
quietly, as if she were afraid of being heard, till she reached 
the great whitewashed, heavily weighted doors at the end 
of the passage. She pulled one back with an effort, and 
passed through, and it banged to behind her. 

In front of her was the large open yard which was hidden 
by the shrubbery from the rest of the grounds. Mary walked 
in among the bushes ; each ilex, each box-tree, each laurel 
had that intense familiarity that the shrubberies of our 
childhood have for each of us. In that laurel she had hidden 
in defiance of her governess ; she had gone to cry among 
those stunted box-trees on the rare occasions of blame from 
her father, and there she had also spent moments of morbid 
self-consciousness inevitable in the course of growing up, 
though in her case they had been very few indeed. 

Mary passed hastily among the bushes now, until she had 
turned the corner of the house, and was pressing her way 
between the overgrown laurels and the chapel wall. Soon 
she came to an open space, through which a curving gravel 
walk led from the garden and ended in a flight of steps to a 
low underground door in the wall of the chapel. 

Mary ran down, unlocked the door and left the key in it. 
She was springing up the steps again when a thought struck 
her. She stepped quickly back, opened the door which 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. II5 

grated on some fine gravel, and knelt down beside it and 
covered her face with her hands. 

“O little baby!” she whispered, “you only saw your 
mother for those few minutes, but you are safe up in heaven. 
Little baby, we can’t help her, and so you must.” 

Then she got up quickly, stifling a sob, and went away as 
she had come, but soothed, comforted and hopeful. 

Meanwhile the baby’s mother was walking in the shrubbery 
and thinking to herself how little Laura knew that it was a 
tiny coffin that had brought her to Skipton-le-Grange. 

Madge more than once had turned into the path that led 
to the door of the vault, and had followed it until she was 
close upon the chapel ; and then she had abruptly left it and 
walked away through a green path that wound towards a 
gate in the park palings. The third time that she made 
this circuit she hesitated. 

“ I wonder if by any chance the door m%ht be open. I 
will not ask Mrs. Riversdale, she might have the sense to 
leave it open. I know she v/ill think it an unnatural crime 
if I don’t go there, which is enough to keep one away. 
Oh, those old plots to make me good and meek and sub- 
missive ! She would have liked me to sit with my front 
door ajar waiting for George to condescend to come back. 
And now he is dead why can’t she leave my poor soul alone ? 
She wants to soften me. I know she does, she thinks — oh, 
I don’t know what she thinks — but why can’t I be allowed 
to have my little baby to myself? ” 

At the tender words the vision she had successfully 
banished so often came back to her — the one look of the 
tiny drawn face, so wise, so full of meaning. })They come 
with that look into the world, as if a little tired with their 
own knowledge, and very conscious of the intense personality 
which is theirs. They lose it soon ; they are soon reduced by 
swathings and baths and nonsense and bottles, indigestion 
and temper, to the merely undeveloped, helpless human 


Ii6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


infant we all know. Only those who meet them first feel 
the mystery, and are hushed into awe at its sacredness. To 
the mother the mystery has a difference, for her it is a sacred 
deposit given into her keeping, a great secret, clothed in her 
own flesh. 

Madge had felt, if dimly, this revelation, as the tiny thing 
in its white robes was laid beside her. She had looked on 
her child’s face with an immense surprise. This was not a 
baby such as her friends had had ; this was a human being. 
This was her best friend, this wise soul in its tiny coverings. 
She had touched the fingers and asked if they were not too 
blue. 

Oh, she’s just out of the bath,” the nurse had said sooth- 
ingly, “ now she must come away.” 

Madge had hardly known when the little girl was moved 
away. She never saw it again. She had no longing to see 
the dead body ; for it was the mighty spirit, the individual 
mystery that she had seen, and that was gone. It was for that 
that her mourning had been very bitter. Only she implored 
the nurse, amidst her sobbing, not to let anybody else see the 
baby. By ‘anybody’ she meant Mrs. Riversdale, and the nurse 
had understood her. Mrs. Riversdale was away, but was to 
return that day. George thought it wise of the nurse to wish 
to close the coffin, the better part of him had been roused at 
the time by his loss. It was best for Madge to know that 
it was closed. 

That was little more than five years ago, and it was 
frightfully vivid to Madge as she walked in the shrubbery. 
At length, as she came round among the bushes again, she 
moved deliberately towards the chapel. When she came in 
sight of the door she heaved a sigh of relief ; it was open, 
not wide open, but just enough to make it evident from a 
distance that it was not shut up. She drew nearer and 
listened. Not a sound anywhere. She hoped that nobody 
was there. She came close to the top of the steps that led 


MADGE VISITS THE VAULT. 


II7 

down to the heavy oak door. Then unfortunately she looked 
up. The sacristy window was the only one from which that 
side of the chapel could be seen, and in the sacristy, looking 
out of the window, half-concealed behind the open door of 
the vestment press, was Mrs. Riversdale, waiting doubtless 
to see if she would go to the vault. One glance was enough 
for Madge ; she did not move forward or go away. She put 
her hand in her pocket, drew out her cigarette-case, and felt 
for a match-box in the pocket of her coat. She tried to strike 
a match, and failed. She threw it down. Then she raised 
her foot on to the green stone kerb above the steps and struck 
again, lit her cigarette, threw away the second match blindly, 
and it fell down the steps. She walked slowly, — very slowly, — 
away, puffing delicate wreaths of smoke in front of her. A 
moment later, she had made the tour of the shrubbery and 
had walked with the same slow, deliberate step through the 
front hall, and up the first flight of the big staircase. She 
passed through a baize door that opened from the landing, 
and hurrying into her own room, let the door slam behind her. 

That afternoon, Madge, Hilda and Mark Fieldes took a 
long drive — Fieldes was to be shown an old country house 
in the neighbourhood, with a priest’s hiding-hole and a secret 
chapel. When they got back Madge complained of cold 
feet and said she would go for a turn in the shrubbery. It 
was getting dark, and the sacristy blind was down. Madge 
walked quickly along, till she came to the steps. Then she 
raised her veil, and looked about as if for something she had 
lost. It was getting dark. Madge knelt down and felt with 
her hand along the moss-grown steps. No, the matches were 
not there. 

“ She sent to fetch them away. I am sure she did,” 
thought Madge. “ I suppose she told King that Mrs. George 
had been smoking near the chapel. How hateful.” 

Poor old Mrs. Riversdale, sitting in the stiff, high-backed 
chair, gazing into the fire, knew that the additional touch of 


ii8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


wheeziness she was feeling had been her punishment for a 
hasty descent from the sacristy to gather up the desecrating 
matches. She would not for the world have spoken to anyone 
on the subject. For herself, she felt that no such revelation had 
been needed to show her what sort of girl poor George had 
married. The sadness, the dull ache, the profound unselfish 
pain of the poor old heart, which was a deep if a narrow 
one, found some relief in thinking what a different man 
George would have been under other influences. 


CHAPTER X. 


BENEDICTION. 

There could be no question as to the charms of the billiard- 
room at Skipton that Wednesday evening. It was a perfect 
room, with its huge fireplace and its big sofas, and its shaded 
lamps, in which to lounge away the time between tea and 
dinner. Madge was half lying on a sofa, and near her sat 
Marmaduke, reading aloud scraps of information from the 
Morning Post. Hilda was leaning over the billiard-table 
playing with the balls. She was still shy enough while 
talking to strangers to find her hands difficult to dispose of. 
Mark Fieldes was standing near her, and they had progressed 
rapidly as usual through the walks of modern literature (in- 
terrupted by exclamations as to her own bad shots with the 
billiard balls) to quasi-religious questions. Murmurs in which 
the names of St. Francis, of Rossetti, of St. Paul and of 
Matthew Arnold were audible came to Marmaduke’s ear, 
and did not make his reading more smooth or intelligible. 

“ Really, Marmaduke, you are absurd,” said Madge, who 
had been too absent-minded to notice before how very confused 
was the information she was receiving from the columns of 
the Morning Post. Besides trying to hear Hilda’s con- 
versation with Mark he was making vain attempts to get a 
good view of her without appearing to do so, from' behind his 
newspaper, as she moved her head backwards and forwards, 
catching at one moment the full light of the lamps over the 
table on her eager face and large shining eyes, and at the next 
receding into the darkness beyond. “ What an extraordinary 
collection of people you are putting together.” 

(1 19) 


120 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Marmaduke, looking over 
his paper with a would-be humorous expression. “ I see 
now one paragraph was about a party at your friend the 
Duchess of A.’s, and the other was only the discovery of a 
gambling hell in Paris.” 

“ You’ll produce a scandal before you’ve done,” said Madge 
wearily. 

At that moment a bell rang noisily through the house. 
Madge sat up abruptly. 

“ It is the chapel bell ! ” she cried ; “ and I thought we were 
going to have a little peace ! ” 

“ What does thie service consist of? ” asked Mark. 

“ Oh, first there are endless dull prayers — I shan’t come 
till Benediction, Hilda.” 

Hilda was sorry to be interrupted, but knowing that Mark 
was watching, she moved briskly. 

“ May I come too ? ” he inquired, following her. 

Hilda was all graciousness, and they left the room together. 

Marmaduke had half risen before Fieldes spoke. Then he 
settled down again into the deep chair. 

“ I shall wait for Benediction,” he said, “ and come with 
you.” 

Mark, having waited in the hall while Hilda went to fetch 
a shawl of black lace, which she threw not ungracefully over 
her head, followed her up a winding staircase until, turning 
to the left, she led him along a passage. There she paused 
opposite to a red baize-covered door, on which hung a small 
stoup for holy water. It was the door by which Fieldes 
had seen Mary and Hilda enter the chapel the previous 
morning. 

“We go into the gallery, which is organ loft and family 
pew in one. Nobody from outside the house comes up there, 
except one or two boys who sing in the choir. It is rather 
dark, and there are two steps which one can tumble over. 
Aunt Helen likes visitors to kneel in front of the gallery.” 


BENEDICTION. 


I2I 


Fieldes saw that Hilda was a little eager and pleased at 
his having asked to come to Benediction, and was evidently 
anxious that nothing untoward should occur to mar the effect 
of the service. 

The extreme plainness of the interior of the chapel was 
now happily veiled by the “ dim religious light,” and it took 
some moments before Fieldes realised its ugliness. The 
upper part of the walls was bare, and shiny yellow blinds 
hid the long oblong windows. The only decoration he could 
see consisted of a number of small devotional pictures hung 
at equal distances and all framed alike. For the chancel or 
sanctuary were reserved greater artistic efforts, and for the 
two small altars that flanked it. The chancel was small and 
square. Its corners were fitted with pilasters of imitation 
marble, and the door that opened from it into the sacristy 
had heavy supports and cross beams of the same salmon and 
green-tinted material. This was carefully matched by a false 
door to satisfy the eye on the other side. 

The Roman altar was of yellow marble, and on it stood 
tall gold candlesticks, of that kind of Parisian Gothic so 
common in French churches. Above the altar was an apse, 
filled by an enormous transparency, representing the resur- 
rection, and in the space between that and the real window 
of the building, a cunningly disguised gas jet, now lighted, 
showed up the singularly unfortunate colours of this repre- 
sentation. On either side were raised two huge figures of 
St. Peter and St. Paul, which seemed to Mr. Fieldes to have 
been cut short at the knees, and so placed on their gilded 
renaissance brackets. He was half fascinated by the curious 
hideousness of the whole effect, which did not prevent a 
certain sense of its being a consecrated atmosphere into 
which he had been admitted. To whatever this atmosphere 
was to be attributed, he had always recognised it in Catholic 
churches. 

While Fieldes was examining the little building, as far as 


122 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the dusky light allowed, people had been coming in below 
and passing under the gallery to their places. The chapel 
still served, as in the days of persecution, as the parish church 
for the Catholics of the neighbourhood ; and the services were 
generally attended by a certain number of villagers as well 
as the household. The organ soon began to discourse, and 
really to discourse sweet music. It was a beautiful instru- 
ment and it was well played. The moment he heard the 
firm touch upon the keys, Fieldes turned round and saw that 
Mary was the organist. A few moments later the music 
ceased as the monk emerged from the sacristy door and 
announced a hymn which was sung by the small congre- 
gation in rather a perfunctory manner. When it came to an 
end Fieldes expected to hear the prayers of which Madge 
had spoken, instead of which to his surprise Father Clement 
mounted the altar steps and turned round with the evident 
intention of preaching. He folded his arms under their 
enormous flowing sleeves, making a magnificent series of 
curves with each movement, and he threw his head back in 
the same way that Fieldes had noticed when he seemed to 
be scenting the air in the garden. He broke the silence in 
a low clear voice : — 

“ Commit thy way unto the Lord and He will bring it to 
pass ”. 

His sermon will not be given here ; but it cannot be passed 
by without some brief description, because it was believed to 
have had a considerable influence on the lives of two of those 
that heard it. Mark Fieldes many years afterwards owned 
to having introduced it in that novel of his, which was not 
very successful, called Phidias Redux. In the following 
passage from Phidias Redux he gives a brief account of 
the sermon heard by Phidias in a Catholic chapel. 

“ It was very simple in style, it was sunny and yet stern. 
It was as if the preacher were surrounded, pervaded, by the 
serene unearthly atmosphere of one of Fra Angelico’s pictures 


BENEDICTION. 


123 


— the magnificent monkish figure doubtless aiding the im- 
pression. It was remote from the atmosphere of daily life, 
yet it touched the listeners’ most intimate moral experiences. 
While he could hardly breathe the air in which throve this 
ideal of asceticism and renunciation, Phidias yet recognised 
that it was a human claim that was urged by one who in his 
nature, in the stuff he was made of, was the same as himself. 
It was a very simple homily on sacrificing the created will to 
the will of the Creator, on the fitness, the profitableness, nay, 
the dire necessity of this surrender; for ‘to whom else should 
we go ? ’ In one thing it was very unlike such discourses 
as we suppose are often heard in monasteries, that was in 
its subtle analysis of human motives and delusions. It was 
on no man of straw who ‘ haunted the antechambers of the 
great ’ or who loved gold like a miser that the monk called 
for renunciation. His summons would apply to any self- 
wearied human being, clinging to a world about which he 
had no delusions, clinging to it simply because it was a dis- 
traction from his intolerable self-consciousness. 

“ But it did smack of the monastery chapel in its entire 
absence of appeal to the intellect, in its absolute taking 
for granted of the existence of this supremely beneficent 
Creator, who could satisfy all needs, fill all the emptiness, 
if we would only give up our wills to His. Yet so electric 
is sympathy that Phidias felt at the moment, that coming 
from this son of the early ages, whose life was a fulfilment 
of the sternest traditions of Christian self-denial, it had a 
reality in the note of confidence and of triumph to which it 
soon passed, of a sure experience that all things good and 
true and joyous were indeed added to those who seek the 
Lord. It seemed as if the long fast, the midnight penance, 
the hideous bareness and discomfort of his own life had 
but enhanced in this son of the desert the actual enjoyment 
of some overmastering vision. Nothing in it was more 
pathetic, more touching, than its suggestion of the entire 


124 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


satisfaction of the affections by a personal intercourse with 
the Unseen. 

“ Bringing all his hearers into his companionship he 
seemed to take for granted that the golden atmosphere of his 
ideal was in and about them also ; and that they could con- 
gratulate each other on the deeper meaning of the text, that 
our own hunger for joy could be satisfied, our own imperious 
wills tamed through the process of self-denial and self-rejec- 
tion. All that can be said is ‘ Amen, So be it ’ to those 
to whom it is possible. To Phidias it was not possible : 
and so for him the sermon could win no lasting conviction. 
Yet for this experience he was always thankful. Though 
to him the mental submission and the moral intensity 
described by the old monk were equally impossible, the 
sermon enriched his spiritual experiences. It awoke feelings 
in his nature that were never entirely lost. It widened his 
sympathies to see that a sublime spiritual union is not only 
believed in but is found satisfying by a human heart like 
unto our own.” 

In the midst of the short and simple discourse of which 
we have borrowed his description, Fieldes had been irritated 
by the sound of an opening door, and looking round saw 
Madge hastily enter the gallery followed by Marmaduke. 
There was a little rustle before they were settled. He felt 
amused in spite of his annoyance at the interruption, at the 
thought of Madge’s feelings on being obliged to listen to a 
sermon unexpectedly. However he was too much interested 
in the monk to be distracted for more than a moment. But 
when, having given his blessing. Father Clement turned to 
leave the altar, Mark looked round and noticed that Madge 
was already on her knees, her face buried in her hands, and 
■something of emotion was discernible in her attitude which 
he had never observed before. 

Madge had knelt down hastily on the prie-dieu in front 
of her as the sermon ended. Her black lace veil fell over 


BENEDICTION. 


125 


her shoulders on to the sleeves of her tea-gown. It was- 
rare for her to be seen in absolute simplicity of pose or 
gesture. Now she was very still. She felt soothed and at 
rest. At rest in the chapel she had avoided, at peace after 
a sermon from the monk. She had felt repulsion to Father 
Clement in ordinary social meeting, yet she was intensely 
soothed by him now. This was what she had dreaded^ 
this chapel and that voice. And now both had brought 
peace. She was still the Madge who, as a child, had taken 
her childish troubles to the Convent Chapel, there to weep 
them away. 

Yes, she found to her own surprise that she was at peace. 
She was very tired, and there was no need to struggle 
here. How much she took in of the sermon it is difficult to 
say. It sounded to her touching and very kind. It was not 
to her distinct enough to be more than soothing. It was 
reminiscent of the days when Father Clement had made 
her wish to be very good indeed, the days of her unhappy 
marriage before the baby came, when she had dwelt peace- 
fully, though tearfully, on the thought of heaven. The 
influence she had dreaded had come, but with a difference. 
It had come as a wave of emotion with tender thoughts of 
her past self and of her baby. It had come as a reaction 
from her fit of temper that morning ; and here in the chapel 
she was not very far from the little coffin in the vault. 
She knelt by it in spirit as she prayed, and so stayed in a 
holy joy and quiet till the service was ended. 

But we are linked by chains about the feet of God, and 
the history of Madge’s future was not to be independent of 
another soul conflict, that had begun also, or rather had 
become conscious, during that short homily. 

It needs the skilled hand of a psychologist to describe the 
phenomena of a great discovery in our own consciousness. 
We grow silently, unconsciously, in some given direction, 
and we are suddenly startled by finding where we are. Take 


126 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the commonest form of this, the one of which novelists give 
us scores of descriptions, the discovery of being in love with 
one known perhaps for years, and supposed to be an object 
of indifference — or take that marvellous account of Jouffroy 
of the moment at which he discovered that the old faith was 
gone from him. So, too, there came a flash of another kind 
to Mary, which illuminated a whole range of unconscious 
thought and moral action in the past. 

Sitting on the narrow organist’s bench, with her back to 
the organ, with her legs crossed and her small white hands 
folded upon her knee, her head erect, still in her riding habit, 
but with a little veil thrown over her head, which did not 
cover her face, Mary listened to the sermon. Her blue eyes 
were bright, her cheeks flushed, her chestnut curls were 
tumbled round her high, white, narrow forehead. No one 
in the chapel, half filled by people who loved her in varying 
degrees, could see the changes on her face. She who was 
loved so dearly by the people of Skipton, to whom all that 
was about them was to belong in due course, whom they 
would have done all they could to shelter from pain, she 
was to suffer in a strange loneliness. 

“ In the beginning of creation,” said Father Clement in 
one passage of the sermon, “ the Master and Maker of us 
all commented on His work, and each day He saw and 
pronounced that it was good, until He came to the making 
of man. Then having made Adam He did not say that this 
work was good. But He did say, ‘ It is not good for man to 
be alone \ It was as if in man only there were a flaw that 
God wished to remedy. God provided for him a companion ; 
but human companionship has ever been but a partial and 
temporary supply of this, man’s deepest need. Has not 
man been alone ever since ? And have not the greatest of 
men been the most alone ? The heights of all mountains 
are lonely, all great thought moves alone, all true poetry is 
sung alone. Why, Lord, are the best and the purest and the 


BENEDICTION. 


27 


highest of Thy creatures, the most open to Thy criticism in 
the beginning ? Why, Lord, do they go in such awful soli- 
tude, if it is not good for them to be alone ? 

“ My brethren, why, having seen that we need companion- 
ship, did the Creator leave us all in such a large measure of 
solitude ? Why did He so leave us that words hide our 
meanings, that looks are a dim and obscure revelation and 
seem only to tell us that there is a secret behind them that 
they cannot convey ? that the acutest pain is borne alone 
before helpless onlookers, and that death comes as a passage 
even more lonely than the solitude of life ? Why does He 
not give us companions who can fully understand us and 
whom we can understand ? Because,” Father Clement 
glanced upwards and then with a strange smile looked 
round at his listeners, “ because, children, only He who 
made the soul can really fill its need. His chosen ones He 
calls absolutely to have no companions but Himself.” 

Here it was that Mary’s mind became distracted and 
worried. A certain tension in her listening was relaxed. 
She moved her feet, uncrossed her knees, tried to reach a 
footstool and could not, tried to keep still and could not. 
Why did these words give her such restless thoughts, why 
did the text seem painful, as it kept constantly returning, 
“Commit thy way unto the Lord”? From a little child 
Mary had committed her way to the Lord, so why should 
she be troubled ? What, — anybody might have wondered, — 
could trouble her ? She was happy : she felt strongly and 
healthily even now, in despite of her grief for George, the 
pleasures of her daily life. Now what had there been, she 
asked herself as the sermon went forward, that had of late 
made her restless as to her own employments. Trivial 
incidents came to her mind. Why had she told her mother 
with a sigh that it would not be worth while to carry 
out her scheme of painting her bedroom with Japanese 
designs ? Why had she felt so little pleasure when Mrs. 


128 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Riversdale had insisted on her having a new riding habit ? 
She became conscious that there had been lately symptoms 
of some change working under the surface ; symptoms 
which came back upon her in petty detail and teased her 
now. Her mind seemed to be going back upon itself in 
trembling bewilderment, clinging to such things as her 
horse, her dog, as if she were trying to keep awake, to 
keep away from some state of being that would otherwise 
suck her in. Yet she hardly said more to herself than that 
she ought to pay attention to the rest of jthe sermon, and 
that she was not doing so. 

“ I must not be distracted,” were words that kept rising 
to her lips, as she tried to listen to the monk speaking of 
the different ways in which souls were led, and how all were 
called to some form of renunciation but in differing degrees. 
That each act of renunciation was to forego union with and 
dependence on the creature, and advance one step in union 
with the Creator; to accept loneliness and then to find it 
transformed into the joy of intercourse, higher, purer, than 
had yet been known. Then Mary, looking at the tabernacle, 
drew her mind to submit to her will with an effort, and 
whispered her favourite ejaculation, the word of another 
Mary, “ Rabboni ”. It was to her the formula of a complete 
submission. But, as in a flash of lightning, there seemed 
to come the answer, “ Sell all that thou hast and follow 
Me ”. This was the discovery ; this was what for months, 
nay, years, she had been growing to ; this was the manner 
in which “ her way ” was to be “ committed ”. To Madge, 
in the mood of the moment, it might seem that the way 
of the Lord would be easy; but to Mary had come the 
hard saying, and with all her woman’s sensitive complex 
consciousness she felt that it lit up her past with lurid 
distinctness. She shrank piteously before it. Why was it 
such a blow ? Why had she not seen it long before ? Why 
had she been allowed to grow up loving that home, those 


BENEDICTION. 1 29 

parents so intensely, if she had been intended all along to 
leave them and go forth ? 

“ Rabboni, Rabboni,” she repeated to herself, clinging to 
the good will that had always brought her peace, but which 
seemed now to be leading her into deep waters, where no 
man could follow her, where she would for ever from hence- 
forth be alone. 

Mary did not cover her face with her hands. She was 
motionless now. Her suffering was inarticulate ; it was past 
thought. The monk’s concluding sentences seemed dull and 
meaningless, though in reality even the most ordinary words 
of the sermon were being graven on her memory. It was a 
relief when he stopped speaking, a relief to be obliged to 
play the hymn. During the Benediction service which 
followed, she was still occupied with the organ ; still appeared 
to herself to be cold and indifferent and half asleep. More 
people sang during Benediction, and Fieldes was surprised 
by the improved quality and harmony of the voices. The 
litany seemed to grow in a special intensity as it Vent on. 
But was it that the alternate verses were sung by a young 
contralto voice ringing with a strange pathos, a singular 
purity of note that might have befitted a disembodied spirit ? 
There was something in the solo that surprised and infected 
the congregation, who felt that they had never before appre- 
ciated the power of Mary’s singing. 

A few moments more and the short service was finished, 
and the lights were being slowly extinguished. Mary half 
mechanically lighted a votive candle before the picture of 
“ Our Lady of Perpetual Succour ” in the tribune. She had 
intended, after Benediction was over, to go to the sacristy 
and speak to Father Clement about a poor woman in trouble, 
but she shrank from seeing him. She was oppressed ; she 
was suffering ; she wanted to escape ; and, with only a hasty 
genuflexion, she left the chapel. Directly she had closed 
the door, she ran along the passage, and mounting the back 

9 


130 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


stairs, two steps at a time, reached the old schoolroom, 
which was now her sitting-room. 

There Carlos, the collie, was lying in front of the fire, 
and he rose and went to meet her, his brown eyes looking 
love and wisdom. Mary knelt down by him, put her head 
down to his face, and burst into a passion of soothing, free- 
flowing tears. God’s dumb, wise, loving creature seemed to 
be a piece of homely, earthly being with whom she could 
find refuge from the supernatural. 


CHAPTER XL 


MADGE LEAVES SKIPTON. 

Madge was alone in the tribune. The lights on the altar 
had been extinguished, and the little flame of the sanctuary- 
lamp was the only relief in the darkness of the chapel below. 
It shone faintly, but the brass door of the tabernacle could 
be distinguished in the circle of dim red light, as well as the 
ivory figure of the crucifix on the throne above. A few 
worshippers had lingered after the Benediction service, but 
they were now gone ; only an occasional sound from the 
sacristy showed that somebody was still there. Madge sat 
on, soothed by the stillness, tranquillised by the atmosphere 
of peace and adoration ; that indescribable atmosphere made 
up of the traditions of ages, of the recollections of childhood, 
the experience of life, that clusters round the belief in the 
Divine Presence. But Madge had yet to find that peace 
could not last for her if she stayed on before the tabernacle. 
It must be for her the “ Yea ” or “ Nay ” of a moral struggle. 
To Mark Fieldes it had been an evening of agreeable emo- 
tions ; to Madge it must be more or less. 

Presently the sacristy door opened, and the tall white 
figure of the monk passed across the sanctuary. He genu- 
flected just under the lamp, and turned towards the chapel, 
which he supposed to be empty. The votive candle, which 
Mary had lit before the Madonna in the tribune, shed too 
dim a light to show him the little white face, the shining 
eyes which strained to see him in the darkness. For a moment 
Madge saw him clearly, and the sadness, the tenderness, 

(131) 


132 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and the peace of the old face seemed legible to her. He 
turned into the bench, and knelt down and sighed deeply. 
As Madge looked at him she said to herself, “ Yes, I will 
go to confession and tell him all,” and Madge moved close 
to the picture of the Madonna, that she might be able by the 
light of its candle, to read her prayer-book, and opened it at 
the page headed : “ Preparation for Confession All the 
rebelliousness of that morning seemed gone — the irritation 
at Mrs. Riversdale, the repulsion to Father Clement. The 
smell of the fragrant incense, the figure of the kneeling monk, 
the lamp that burned before the sanctuary, the remembrance 
still fresh of the words of the sermon and of the Holy Presence 
at Benediction, blended together, and she was collecting her 
thoughts and going through the stages of preparation, so 
familiar to little Madge O’Reilly at the Convent of the Sacre 
Coeur ten years ago, when every Saturday took her to confes- 
sion to M. L’Abbe. She had come to Skipton to make her 
confession and now she felt that she could do it. The peace 
on her face, usually so restless, which had struck Mark 
Fieldes as he left the tribune, looked still deeper now, and 
she began to pray. 

The minutes passed by. The monk was still praying. 
The chapel was silent. It struck a quarter to seven. Madge 
did not move. Seven o’clock struck and a quarter past, and 
she was still kneeling. Had Fieldes returned now he would 
have seen that the expression of peace was no longer on her 
face. She read her book, and put it down and read it 
again. 

“ Call to mind the occasions of past sin, and firmly resolve 
to avoid them in future,” she read. “ Consider what persons 
and places have been a source of temptation in the past, and 
resolve never to go near to them henceforth. He that loves 
the danger shall perish therein.” 

What was it in these words that brought back to Madge’s 
face the old restlessness? Was not confession a simple 


MADGE LEAVES SKIPTON. 


133 


affair now — now that the angry feelings of the morning had 
passed away ? Why did she not turn over the page and 
read the words “ having now firmly resolved to avoid all 
sin and its occasions, make the act of contrition ” ? 

“ Surely,” she said to herself, “ it is no real temptation — 
it may never be a temptation.” 

But she looked at the same page again, and did not turn 
over the leaf. The clock struck half-past seven. 

“ I must go to Father Clement at once or I shall be late,” 
she thought. “ I will tell him I had not time to prepare 
properly.” 

She started to her feet. She had gone two steps down 
the stairs that led from the tribune to the chapel, as quietly 
as a thief, when a bell rang loudly in the house. It was 
the dressing bell. Madge sprang up the steps again and 
bounded across the tribune. 

“ I can’t,” she cried to herself, “ I can’t. I shall be late 
for dinner.” She sobbed as she ran, tears fell down her face. 
Her handkerchief was held up to her eyes. 

She reached her bedroom. There was Celestine just 
as usual, the spirit lamp lit, the curling tongs in her 
hand. 

“ Madame ne m’a pas dit quelle robe elle allait mettre ce 
soir.” 

Madge paused : this was always an interesting question. 

“ Ma ‘tea-gown’ reseda — non, non, la demi-toilette bleu. 
Ah, que mes cheveux sont en desordre ! Vite, Celestine ! ” 

She sat down, seized the tongs and began to curl her 
fringe violently. “Ah, maintenant je suis brulee, malheur.” 
She looked tenderly at a tiny scar on her forehead, then 
suddenly she turned round upon the impassive little 
foreigner. 

“ Ah, comme 9a serait triste d’etre vraiment bonne, n’est-ce 
pas ? On est bon ici, on est meme saint. Et moi, cela 
m’etouffe. Je partirai demain matin. II faut emballer tout 


134 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


cela pendant que nous sommes a diner, mais n’en dites rien 
a personne — vous comprenez, a personne ? ” 

While she spoke Madge was dressing hastily : she seized 
the gown off the bed. 

“ Mais madame a dit la demi-toilette bleu, et maintenant 
elle met la ‘ tea-gown ’ reseda ! ” 

Celestine was astonished and excited. She had never 
known madame uncertain, tgaree^ as to her toilettes before — 
it was far more surprising than tears or changes of plan. 

The evening passed off well, for Mrs. Riversdale had gone 
to bed with a fresh touch of bronchitis. — Madge talked gaily 
and prettily to her father-in-law. Mary, too, was quite bright 
and chatty, occasionally almost passing to a giggle, which 
was so unlike her as to surprise even the preoccupied Madge. 
After dinner, led by Madge, they all sang Mr. Riversdale’s 
favourite hunting glees, and Madge gave him some Scotch 
songs of which he was fond. It was the brightest evening 
they had had during the visit — and they planned the practis- 
ing of some fresh glees on the morrow. Madge’s soprano, 
Mary’s contralto, and the two men’s voices, all well trained, 
were wonderfully successful ; and Hilda’s little mezzo-soprano 
was quite harmless. 

The merriment was brought somewhat abruptly to a close 
by Madge, who suddenly announced that she had had enough. 
She left the piano and went to sit down on a low stool by 
her father-in-law. She put a hand on his chair. The others 
were still round the piano and could not see them,. The old 
man put his large brown hand over the white one with its 
many rings. They sat thus for a moment when Hilda called 
out to Madge to play one more song. 

“No, no,” cried Madge, “I’ve had enough,” then she 
suddenly bent down and kissed the old man’s hand. 

The squire looked a little surprised. 

“ Child, child,” he said tenderly, “ let nothing divide us, 
eh ? ” 


MADGE LEAVES SKIPTON. 


135 


He bent forward and tried to see her eyes, but she had 
sprung up and in her usual voice bade him good-night, and 
waving her hand to the others ran out of the room. 

At seven next morning Madge crept down to the dining- 
room through the lamp-lit passages. The house felt very 
cold and she picked up her fur cloak in the hall and put it 
over her shoulders. It had been Celestine’s opinion that it 
would excite less attention to put the tray in the dining-room 
than to take it upstairs. The fire was just lit and the figure 
of a housemaid flitted away through a farther door as Madge 
entered. The lamp on the table lit up the brown teapot and 
dish of bacon intended for the servants’ breakfast — of all 
breakfasts in Madge’s eyes the most unpalatable. She sat 
down and drank some tea. She could not eat, it was too 
early. She looked at the clock, she wished the fly would 
come before anybody was about. It was nearly a quarter 
past seven ; if it were punctual she might be off in a few 
minutes now. 

It was Mr. Riversdale’s habit to go to the chapel at seven 
o’clock, and he was kneeling there with a hand-candle to 
read his meditation, when he heard the sound of wheels, 
unusual at that hour, stopping at the front door. He rose, 
and looking out of the tribune window saw a fly; and after a 
moment, the flyman — more astonishing still — disappeared 
into the house and came out again carrying a lady’s trunks, 
evidently Madge’s, helped by the steward’s room boy. The 
old man hurried out of the tribune and almost ran down- 
stairs. He saw that there was a light in the dining-room 
and he went thither. Madge was standing in front of the 
fire, her fur cloak lying at her feet, dressed in a smart tailor- 
made travelling gown. An impression of something he 
disliked in the effect of the little figure, caught there on the 
dark winter’s morning, going away on the sly, revived 
after she had gone some recollections of the one French 
novel he had read many years before. With the greatest 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


136 

difficulty he restrained his anger as he came hastily 
forward. 

“ What’s the meaning of all this ? ” he cried. “ Why didn’t 
they tell me you were going ? And a fly too,” he rang the 
bell impatiently, and an astonished butler in most untidy 
morning deshabille hurried up from some avocations in a 
distant pantry. 

“ The brougham to come round at once for Mrs. George — 
did not Miss Mary order it last night ? I am sorry, Madge ; 
it was very stupid of her.” 

The old man spoke with dignity and Madge felt ashamed. 
The bad taste of her method of departure struck her forcibly 
for the first time. But she was desperately anxious to catch 
that train. 

“ Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said lamely, “ the brougham 
can’t possibly be in time.” 

“ Then you can go by the next train, an hour later,” said 
Mr. Riversdale, “ but why are you going at all ? ” 

He had seen with supreme disgust the earthenware teapot 
and the dish of large slices of bacon, but these he ignored. 

“ Going ? ” said Madge and she seemed unable to speak 
another syllable. “ Going, oh, because I must see the dentist. 
I’ve been in agonies all night, and yesterday at Benediction 
I was crying with the pain. I haven’t slept at all, so I 
thought I would get off by the eight o’clock train and get to 
London at twelve, and catch my dentist.” 

“ It is curious how this place gives you the toothache,” 
said Mr. Riversdale a little hastily ; he could not quite keep 
his temper with prevarication. But he recollected himself, 
for he always felt that he owed Madge all the reparation 
it was in his power to make for his dead son’s neglect and 
selfishness. At that moment too there fell a tear on the 
polished steel grate, and Madge took out her pocket hand- 
kerchief. 

“ I am a brute,” said Mr. Riversdale ; “ but, Madge, what 


MADGE LEAVES SKIPTON. 


137 


have I done that you can’t trust me, eh, child ? If you 
would but be open with me, I believe I could be of use to 
you. It is distressing me and my wife beyond measure.” 

Madge had looked up at him as he spoke, but her face 
hardened when he alluded to Mrs. Riversdale. She turned 
to the clock, — would the brougham never come ? Mr. 
Riversdale felt the weak point of his words. His wife had 
always sided against Madge. But he made one more effort. 

“ Madge,” he said, “ don't go now ; don’t leave us like 
this. What have I done to deserve such treatment ? ” 

There was a touch of dignity and pathos in these words 
hard to resist. To Madge it was intolerable ; she was as 
fond of George’s father as she could be of anybody, but she 
had made up her mind now. She hated scenes, and she 
wanted to get away. She made a diversion. 

“ Thank you,” she said, “ I know you are good to me, but 
I must make my own life now. But, father, do tell me, 
what is the matter with Mary ? ” 

Mr. Riversdale started. “ The matter with Mary ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “ Why, what makes you say that ? ” 

Madge could not tell what had made her say it, and yet 
now that it was said it seemed to have a good deal of mean- 
ing. It had come without intention or reflection, yet neither 
of them could let it pass, though Mr. Riversdale was as 
earnestly bent on other topics, and Madge had no wish, in 
her anxiety to avoid her own affairs, to plunge into any 
question of intimate importance to the Riversdales. 

“ I don’t know,” said Madge in a slow puzzled tone, “ but 
she is not like herself, not like what she used to be somehow.” 

Mr. Riversdale was not responsive to the matter-of-course 
tone that Madge tried to adopt. 

“ We can none of us be the same as usual,” he said very 
sadly, looking earnestly at her ; but he was partly thinking 
of Mary and hh let her go on. 

“ She does not look well, she seems nervous and her eyes 


138 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


are often red : and she doesn’t really care much about anything 
except her horse and Carlos.” 

Madge was surprised to find how much she had to say, 
and how true her observations seemed to herself though they 
had been made quite unconsciously. She had left the fire- 
place and seated herself in a deep morocco arm-chair. Her 
voice was eager and she spoke rapidly, but her eyes were 
fixed on the door, and her ears strained to hear the noise of 
carriage-wheels. The inward indifference to Mary was be- 
trayed, and jarred upon the listener. 

He forced himself to think only of Madge, but what could 
he say ? Were there words that George’s father could use to 
her ? The precious moments were passing and he was silent. 
Then all thought of George, all sense of personal embarrass- 
ment left him. He moved nearer to her and his soul seemed 
to force him to speak to hers. 

“ Oh, my child,” he said, “ believe me nothing is worth it. 
Perhaps I have stood aside from life, perhaps I can’t tell 
what yours is, what lies before you, what the world holds for 
you. It may be as charming as it is dangerous. But don’t 
blink the truth. Wherever you go, whomever you trust, be 
very sure that you don’t deceive yourself. We don’t want to 
keep you here against your will. But if you choose a life for 
yourself, make very sure that it is a safe one. If you won’t 
listen to me go to somebody better, stronger, than I am, but, 
little Madge,” he stepped to the side of the chair and put his 
big hand softly on her shoulder, “ don’t go to the world, 
mind that, child, mind that.” 

“There could be nobody better than you,” cried Madge — 
she jumped up to kiss him, she had heard the carriage 
drive up. It was the lightest kiss. She moved to the door. 
He did not follow her. She turned and looked at him. 
Was it perhaps the last time that she was to see the tall 
figure, the large regular features ? His outline was distinct 
as he stood there, — his head bent a little in a way that was 


MADGE LEAVES SKIPTON. 


139 


growing upon him ; the blue eyes whose tenderness she 
knew well she could not see. For a moment she longed to 
run back to him, to cry freely on his shoulder, to tell him 
that he should be her shelter. But it was too heavy a price 
she would have to pay for an old man’s peace and affection. 
He did not move, she lightly kissed her hand in his direction 
and went away. 

A moment later she was driving through the park and ex- 
pressing an almost hysterical amount of temper towards her 
maid. “ Whoever heard of anything so stupid as the idea 
of having her breakfast in the dining-room that morning, it 
was hete, bHe^ hete ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 




MARK SINGS A HYMN. 

I HAD not known that Mrs. George Riversdale intended to 
leave to-day,” observed Mark Fieldes to Hilda. 

“No, nor did I, nor did anybody, I think,” said Hilda in 
a puzzled voice. “ At least Marmaduke seemed very much 
surprised.” 

“ Yes,” said Fieldes, “ Lemarchant did not conceal his 
annoyance.” 

The two were alone in the drawing-room. Mrs. Riversdale 
was unusually late, owing to her bronchitis, and had not yet 
left her room. Mary had gone out in the waggonette to 
execute some commissions for her mother, and to send off 
a small box which Madge’s maid had forgotten in the con- 
fusion of her hurried departure. There had grown to be an 
intimacy between Mr. Fieldes and Hilda, and he had ventured 
on showing before her alone certain indications of a respectful 
amusement at some of the ideas and ways of Skipton. But 
Hilda had no intention of discussing with him this mystery 
of Madge’s departure, for she could see that there was some- 
thing of a mystery about it. She stiffened a little when he 
made this remark about Marmaduke, and Fieldes hastened to 
^ive it a different complexion. 

“ What a fine fellow he is ! ” he exclaimed, “ one of the 
most popular men I know, and so straight.” 

He watched Hilda as she answered eagerly : — 

“ Yes, isn’t he. And you know it was so funny ; they were 
all so frightened at his going into the army, except Father 

(140) 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. I4I 

Clement. And yet I think they all own now that he has 
turned out pretty well.” 

“ He is so plucky,” Fieldes continued, “ once I saw him 
do a plucky thing. A man told a story — un pen trop fort, 
as even I thought, — in the smoking-room at a country house 
party, and Lemarchant got up and walked straight out of 
the room ; and everybody liked him the better for it, even 
the man who told the story.” 

That the raconteur in question was himself, Fieldes did not 
think it necessary to mention, but Hilda had an uncomfort- 
able recollection of Marmaduke’s saying that Mrs. Riversdale 
would have had a fit if she could have heard some of Fieldes^ 
stories. 

Mark did not know whether to be annoyed or pleased 
at Hilda’s apparent indifference to this anecdote about Le- 
marchant. It might mean anything. 

“ You say that there are strong objections held by Catholics 
against the army,” he went on. “ Do you know, that fits in 
with one of the few objections I have always felt against 
Catholic education ; I think it is too timorous, more inclined 
to keep men out of temptation than to prepare them for it.” 

“ I like that,” cried Hilda, “ from a son of the persecutors 
to a daughter of the persecuted. And pray who has kept us 
out of the national life for centuries ? Who shut us out from 
the schools and colleges of our country ? Who forced us into 
these habits of concealment, of fear, and these traditions of do 
nothingness I should like to know ? ” and Hilda turned upon 
Fieldes with an air of righteous wrath and laughing eyes. 

Fieldes laughed. “ How long was your cousin in India ? ” 
he inquired. 

“ About five years, I think,” answered Hilda. “ His parents 
were very anxious that he should leave the army when the 
regiment went out, and settle down at home, but he would not.” 

“ Rumour said that he wanted heart healing. It was curious 
that he and your other cousin should have been rivals.” 


142 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ What other cousin ? ” said Hilda, too much interested to 
show her dignity to this retailer of gossip. 

“ Mr. George Riversdale,” observed Fieldes. 

“ And was George refused by the same lady ? ” asked Hilda, 

I mean did gossip say so ? ” 

‘‘No, he was accepted.” 

Light dawned upon Hilda. He meant that Marmaduke 
had been in love with Madge. She blushed furiously and 
was furious with herself for blushing. A thousand little 
things came to her mind to confirm the idea. She knew 
that Marmaduke had had a disappointment. She had once 
heard Marmaduke and George called rivals. Then it struck 
her that this idea tallied so well with Marmaduke's attitude 
towards Madge now ; he was so immensely interested in her. 
There was a chivalrous respectfulness, a willingness to serve, 
a total absence of any touch of flirtation; just such an attitude 
as an ideally good man might hold towards a woman whom he 
loved, and whose recent widowhood demanded reverence and 
reserve. 

But the notion, though so easily planted in her mind, was 
anything but pleasing, nay, it seemed almost revolting. The 
sting of it made her cheeks fiery. There was only a moment’s 
silence during which Fieldes was watching her closely. It 
was so probable that his guess was true. It evidently tallied 
with information of Hilda’s own, or it would not have been 
so easily received ; he was quite sure now that he had spoken 
the truth and a very convenient truth it was. Hilda’s sensa- 
tions were soon overwhelmed by annoyance at Mr. Fieldes 
being the witness of her blushes and confusion. She was 
determined to cover her momentary disadvantage. 

“ Yes,” she said in distinct staccato tones. “ I heard some 
story long ago, but I was too young to be told much ; and of 
course people outside the family would never speak to me on 
the subject.” 

Hilda drew up her long neck with a touch of hauteur 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


143 


which added to her attractions in Mark’s eyes. He thought 
that the blood of all her father’s ancestors was shown in 
her at such moments. He plunged hastily into another 
subject. Hilda, though still hot and angry, was afraid that 
her snub might have been rude. Her pride was easily 
roused ; but any action it led to, she speedily had her doubts 
of. “ I live in a state of remorse,” she had once said to her 
mother, and she was quickly remorseful now. So she readily 
responded to Mr. Fieldes’ wish to talk of something less em- 
barrassing. 

“ I had a most interesting letter from a very remarkable 
woman, a great friend of mine, this morning,” he began. 
“ May I read you a few words from it ? ” 

“ ‘ Your picture of a great old Catholic family has pleased me 
extremely. The lord of the manor riding to hounds with his 
fair daughter ; the white-robed monk ; the village children ; 
the intelligence of a younger generation, perceiving, under- 
standing, yet reverencing them all. I once met and was much 
struck by Mrs. Arthur Riversdale, a woman of such delicate, 
such fine feelings, animating a mind that might otherwise 
have been almost too keen and logical for a woman. It was 
a personality not to be forgotten ! ’ ” 

Fieldes read these few lines with a ring of appreciation in 
his voice. It would not have surprised him in the least if he 
had known that the writer could not remember with certainty 
if she had ever seen Mrs. Arthur Riversdale. He had fre- 
quently found himself that if he could recollect nothing about 
a person it was safest to talk of his or her “ personality ”. 
Hilda was delighted. Nothing could have pleased her better 
than this admiration of her mother. It had occasionally 
occurred to her that logic was not her mother’s strongest point ; 
but she had always dismissed the idea. Mr. Fieldes had been 
quick to perceive that what Hilda loved most and was most 
proud of, with an almost resentful pride, was her mother’s 
family, not the long line of her father’s with its feudal antiquity. 


144 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


He had won Hilda partly by his unspoken sympathy on this 
point, and he seemed to her to be an echo of the opinion of a 
bigger world in which James Harding was still quoted and 
admired. 

“Who wrote the letter?” she inquired eagerly. 

“ Mrs. Hurstmonceaux.” 

“The Laura Hurstmonceaux whom Madge quotes so 
often ? ” inquired Hilda. 

The lady to whom the great author had been evidently 
writing about herself, was, she knew, of particular im- 
portance in Madge’s eyes. That she was meant by the 
“intelligence of the younger generation ”, Hilda had per- 
ceived with delight. Though maternal love had given 
her a fairly good idea of herself, it had been rather a 
matter taken for granted than expressed, that Hilda was a 
clever attractive girl, and she was quite new to out-spoken 
compliment ; but it is an easily acquired taste. Madge might 
be contemptuous because her gowns hung wrongly, but there 
were other people in the big world besides Madge who might 
think differently. About that big world she longed to know 
more. 

“Tell me about her,” she said, lounging back in the deep 
arm-chair, in which she had sat up so stiffly a few minutes 
before. 

This was much pleasanter than talking about Marmaduke. 

“ What is she like ? ” 

Mr. Fieldes was sitting at an old-fashioned big round table, 
of the kind that was considered an exciting innovation when 
Emma persuaded Mr. Woodhouse to allow her to introduce 
it at Hartfield. He was turning over the leaves of a big book 
by Louis Veuillot, profusely illustrated, and not too mundane 
for Mrs. Riversdale. 

“ How am I to convey Mrs. Hurstmonceaux to you ? ” 
he exclaimed, with knitted brows and rising and walking 
towards the fireplace. “ Ask me questions and I will see 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. I45 

how I can answer. It is so difficult to describe her oft-hand 
like this.” 

“ Is she handsome ? ” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“Is she graceful ? ” 

“ No again.” 

“ Does she dress well ? ” 

“ No, yet again.” 

“ Is she wonderfully witty ? ” 

“ She can say witty things, but she doesn't do so often. 
There is something in her talk better than wit. I think 
she feels the sadness of the age too much to be witty. You 
want faith to be witty. Miss Riversdale. ‘ A tender expres- 
sion of spiritual sympathy,’ she once said to me, ‘ is more 
effective now than the most sprightly jest of Sydney Smith’s 
ever was.’ I think the secret of her success is that she 
understands the spirit of the day.” 

“ You are getting on now without questioning : but I will 
ask another. To what religion does she belong ? ” 

“ I don’t think she belongs to any in particular. But 
don’t look horrified. I think she is one of the most re- 
ligious people I know. She loves the highest aspirations 
and emotions of religion, only not the fetters of dogma. 
She quoted to me once those wonderful words of Renan. 
‘ Let us,’ she said, ‘ shroud our head^ and bend them low, 
“ pour ne rien dire de limite en face de I’infini ”.’ ” 

“ But is dogma a limit, or a suggestion of the infinite? ” 
said Hilda in a puzzled tone. “ But that is beyond me ; and, 
Mr. Fieldes, I don’t think your friend is getting clearer to me 
at all. She is plain ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Fieldes. 

“ Awkward ? ” 

“ Oh dear no.” 

“ Dresses badly ? ” 

“ Good gracious ! no.” 


10 


146 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Then she is too mediocre to be called anything.” 

“ Horrors ! ” cried Fieldes ; “ I see that I must never try to 
describe anybody again. She is emphatically original and 
yet there is nothing obtrusive about her. She can say the 
most daring things without being unconventional.” 

“ Do you know, Mr! Fieldes, I think she must be a good 
listener.” 

Admirable ! ” cried Fieldes, laughing, “ she listens to 
perfection. But I must get her clearer to you. She never 
gossips. Mrs. Hurstmonceaux never knows the news on 
the Rialto. She is deaf and blind to scandal.” And he 
added fervently : “ Her infinite delicacy and tact prevent 

her ever blundering. She never believes anything against 
anybody till every one else agrees about it. Then,” Fieldes 
was expressively dropping a note into the fire as he spoke, 
“ then, when the reputation is hopelessly gone, she 
says what she thinks ! I don’t think I have ever known 
a woman so completely charitable before ! That fellow 
Hobbes, you know, all through that scandal you met him 
at the Hurstmonceaux’ s — she evidently knew nothing about 
it ; but when it was clear that everybody else had given him 
up — then he vanished.” 

Hilda looked thoroughly puzzled by this bit of praise. It 
sounded to her like kicking a dog when everybody else had 
finished kicking. But she reflected that she knew very little 
about it, and she did not wish to say anything too innocent 
to Mr. Fieldes, or to show that she had never heard of Hobbes. 

“ Shall I tell you,” she said, “ what kind of person you 
have conveyed to me, in all honesty, as if she were no friend 
of yours ? ” 

“ Yes, do.” 

Well then, I think she is plain, but that she makes you 
forget her plainness ; that she is not graceful but too well 
trained to be called awkward ; that she is so frivolous that 
she doesn’t care if her religious emotions correspond to a 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


147 


reality or not, but that she has immense strength of will. 
If you told me that she were enormously ambitious and 
trying to exert great influence of some kind I should under- 
stand it better. But I don’t see now-a-days what kind of 
career a woman has. Does she try to have political in- 
fluence ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so,” said Fieldes. “ I suppose her 
ambition is social.” 

“ How very uninteresting ! ” said Hilda, with a little moue 
of contempt. 

Fieldes laughed. “ I am not sure that I agree with you,” 
he said ; “ anything that needs skill and tact, and secures 
power over your fellow-creatures must be interesting. Then 
in this case she is triumphing over special difflculties. She 
was quite unknown in London herself, and her husband’s 
people though of very good family are very old-fashioned. 
Well, I’ve made a failure of my description, but it is better 
than describing too well. More than once when I have 
wished to make two people whom I admired know and like 
each other I have made the mistake of praising them too 
much and of course they were disappointed. But one great 
mistake you have made — she is certainly not frivolous. She 
is if anything almost too much in earnest.” 

At that moment Marmaduke came into the room. 

“ I am going to walk across the park to meet Mary. There 
is something wrong with the skating rink. The ground under 
the asphalte is giving, and she wants me to look at it.” 

“I should like to come too,” said Hilda, which was just 
what he had hoped. 

“And so should I,” added Fieldes, which was just what 
he had feared. At this, Hilda ran to get her things on. 

As Fieldes was waiting for her reappearance, Mrs. Rivers- 
dale came into the drawing-room. All Mary’s efforts had 
failed to keep her mother in her room. She was too much 
upset, too restless to be quiet. Fieldes saw that she was 


148 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


perturbed. The falling crape collar, which formed the back- 
ground to the miniature of her son, was tumbled ; the folds 
of the rich silk gown rustled in an agitated manner. Mrs. 
Riversdale was on the defensive. She knew that her husband 
thought that if she had made her more welcome Madge 
would have stayed longer, and in Marmaduke and Mary’s 
worried looks she saw criticism. She was aggrieved, and 
her conscience was not perfectly easy ; she was a very good 
woman, and capable of generosity, though naturally narrow ; 
but her idolatry of her son had been her ruling passion from 
the moment when the old nurse had laid a red-faced white- 
robed object beside her, saying in a voice of triumph : — 

“ A son and a heir, the beauty ”. 

She was up in arms for his memory now, and indignantly 
refused to listen to vulgar gossip. It had been all Madge’s 
fault anyhow ; and then her own husband actually said that 
she ought to have been warmer to Madge — to Madge, who 
had not even had the decency to come to Skipton in mourn- 
ing. Had she not done her best ? Had she ever been more 
courteous to anybody ? Mr. Fieldes, attentive and deferen- 
tial, just suited her this morning. And besides, she had 
somehow grown to imagine that he had been an intimate 
friend of her son’s. She settled herself in her large arm- 
chair, and turning to him said graciously : — 

“ Are you fond of miniatures, Mr. Fieldes ? because, if so, 
this one of my son at eight years old is worth your attention. 
It is by one of our best artists.” 

She opened a case, and showed an exquisite picture of a 
fair-haired boy, playing with a dog. There was the touch 
of real genius in the work, its exquisite minuteness giving 
no effect of littleness. It was suggestive down to the 
slightest touch. A child’s individuality is hard to catch 
but it was caught here. The wilful pride and eagerness 
in the exquisite little face only enhanced its beauty. 

The night before, Mrs. Riversdale had wept a torrent of 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


149 


tears over that picture. “ Was it for this,” she cried in the 
truthfulness of the night, “ that I bore and bred you, my 
beautiful son, for a wasted sinful youth and the breaking of 
your father’s heart?” Now she was showing it proudly to 
Mr. Fieldes. 

“ It shows the manly straightforward character of the 
child,” she said. “Yet he was always to be led by affection, 
by good influences. It was a character that needed good in- 
fluences, and as long as he was under our control he never 
had any other. We never agreed with Marmaduke’s parents 
about education. We kept him away from the world. At 
sixteen he was as innocent as any girl.” 

Before Mr. Fieldes could speak, she had shut the miniature 
case and put it down with a certain dignity. 

“ I don’t know if you agree with me, Mr. Fieldes, but I 
sometimes think that the foreign way of arranging marriage 
has its advantages.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Fieldes with respectful sympathy. 
But any further discussion on foreign matrimonial customs 
was prevented by the appearance of Hilda, who summoned 
Mr. Fieldes and told him that Marmaduke was in the hall. 

It was rather a silent trio that took their way across the 
park and along the two miles of high-road that lay between 
the south lodge and the station. A flickering political dis- 
cussion went on between Fieldes and Marmaduke as to the 
effect of a Gladstonian Government in India, in which Hilda 
tried mildly to maintain the position of the “ intelligence of 
the younger generation ”. If Marmaduke had been less ab- 
sent-minded and worried that morning, he might have teased 
her for her answers, more sharp than well-informed, to his 
observations on the condition of India. As they came near 
to the little country station they wondered at not having met 
Mary. 

“ She said she would be at the lodge by 11*30, and now it 
is nearly 12 o’clock,” observed Marmaduke. 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


150 

A little curve in the road brought the station in full view. 
The waggonette was standing in the road, with quite a small 
crowd of porters and labourers and women round it. 

“ It looks as if something were wrong ! ” exclaimed Mar- 
maduke. At that moment the group opened to let a footman 
with what looked like a stretcher pass into the station ; and 
they could recognise the Skipton livery. 

“ Stay here, Hilda,” Marmaduke said in a tone of com- 
mand, and he ran swiftly forward. Fieldes was quite willing 
to stay also. He was no lover of horrors, and he felt no 
strong sense of his own capacity to help. 

“ I had better stay with you,” he observed to Hilda in a 
protecting voice. 

“ Oh no,” she cried, “do go and see what it is. But I do 
hope it is nothing. Please go and find out.” 

Fieldes hesitated. Perhaps it was unfair to him, — for it 
was certainly no situation of danger that he was avoiding, nor 
was it likely that he could be of any particular use, — but 
the contrast between the two men, both in appearance and 
manner, struck Hilda forcibly at that moment ; — Marmaduke 
with well-knit active figure, swiftly approaching the station; 
Fieldes standing irresolute without any sense of readiness 
for action, of quickness to help, perceptible in his face. But 
Hilda was too terrified as to the nature of the confusion at 
the station to do more than receive an impression of which 
she was hardly conscious at the time. She was pale with 
terror. What was it ? Had anything happened to Mary ? 
Horrible visions of mangled corpses left by trains in their 
ghastly wake, crowded before her mental vision. 

“ Oh, do go ! ” she cried almost fiercely, turning upon 
Fieldes. 

“ I am not going to leave you alone,” said Fieldes a little 
pettishly. “ I shall stay here.” 

Horrible visions had made him pale also. 

A moment afterwards Marmaduke had disappeared in the 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


151 

little crowd, and then a boy came running towards them. 
On seeing this Fieldes started to meet him, running in a 
curiously shuffling way, his long legs interfering with each 
other. The little boy delivered his message to Fieldes, full of 
self-importance, and began running back to the station at 
once as if he felt he could not be spared. 

Fieldes began the same curious movements towards Hilda. 

“ They are all safe ! ” he paused to shout ; but evidently 
Hilda couldn’t hear. She ran, swiftly, gracefully, to meet 
him. 

“ She is all safe ! ” he shouted again. 

“ Hurrah ! ” cried Hilda joyously. 

They slackened as they drew nearer, and Fieldes was very 
much out of breath. 

“ What has happened then ? ” she inquired. 

“ No man or woman hurt,” he said ; “ but it is very horrid, 
very nasty. I’m glad Lemarchant made us stay here. It is 
the dog, your cousin’s dog.” 

“ Carlos, Mary’s beautiful Carlos ? ” 

“ Yes, it was killed by the train. Miss Riversdale had 
crossed over to speak to the station-master, and the dog 
bounded across to her just as the train was starting, and was 
smashed.” 

Their first sense of relief was lost in the horror of it. The 
beautiful Carlos with his golden brown shagginess, his 
magnificent human eyes, his intense devotion to his mistress. 
They walked on to the station in silent sympathy, both dread- 
ing the meeting with Mary. They had not gone far when 
they met the waggonette. Mary and Marmaduke were seated 
in it. Mary was very white, and there was a pathetic look 
of misery in her blue eyes ; but only the suspicion of tears. 
The little sensitive marks at the corners of her large full lips 
were quivering. They stopped, and Hilda and Fieldes seated 
themselves on the empty side of the waggonette. They drove 
home in unbroken silence except that Marmaduke told Hilda 


152 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


that she ought to put on a cloak, and Hilda obeyed, assisted 
by efforts from Mr. Fieldes. Not one of the four saw any- 
thing of the wintry landscape. They all had one picture in 
their minds ; the beautiful eyes of the great collie, as he 
jumped lovingly to meet his mistress. 

When they got to the lodge Mary said in a low voice to 
Marmaduke : — 

“ I should like to walk across the park ; ” and they all knew 
that she wished to go alone, so they let her get down. 

When Mary was out of ear-shot Marmaduke leaned across 
to Hilda. 

“ You had a fright,” he said tenderly, for a moment forget- 
ful of Fieldes. 

“ I was afraid it was Mary,” said Hilda, answering his look 
and turning pale at the thought. Then she turned a little 
abruptly to Mr. Fieldes who was sitting by her. 

“ The stretcher added to our horrors, didn’t it ? ” 

“ Was it to take Carlos away ? ” inquired Fieldes. 

“ Yes,” Marmaduke answered. “ The very moment the 
train had passed they threw sacking over him before Mary 
could see. She wanted to bring him home, and the station- 
master didn’t like to refuse, though he knew it wasn’t possible. 
He was greatly relieved to see me. He asked me to take 
her away. He was quite upset himself. It is extraordinary 
what feeling everybody here has for Mary. One thing they all 
said was that they wished ‘ the poor brute had been som’ ’un 
else’s ’ ! I think she is the most popular character in the 
country round.” 

The rest of the day passed heavily at Skipton, and things 
seemed to Hilda to be going contrariwise. Fieldes was 
absorbed for a longtime in conversation with Father Clement, 
who lunched at the house ; and when the monk left, the old 
squire devoted himself to his guest, to whom he feared he had 
been not attentive enough so far. Marmaduke had been 
asked by his uncle to attend a horse show at the county town. 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


153 


Mary was busy with her mother, who had been persuaded by 
the doctor, much against her own wishes, to go to her despised 
bed, and Hilda found time pass very slowly. At tea-time 
Mr. Fieldes thought himself in luck at last, for he found Hilda 
alone with the tea-pot and cakes. 

“ Have you seen Miss Riversdale since the accident ? ” he 
inquired, taking his tea from Hilda’s hands, which, though 
they could not be called “ small or fair,” being rather large 
and brown, were well-shaped, with long tapering fingers. 

“ No,” said Hilda. “ She must have had lunch after we 
left, and gone up to her mother’s room afterwards. I am so 
dreadfully sorry for her. She was so devoted to the dog.” 
Hilda held out a plate of hot buttered tea-cake. 

“ Wait a moment,” said Fieldes, “ I want to show you 
something before my fingers touch that.” 

He drew out of his pocket a little leather case. It con- 
tained an exquisitely bound and illuminated copy of The 
Following of Christ. 

“ I had it painted for myself at Oulton Abbey by the Bene- 
dictines. Is it not exquisite ? See, each capital is a separate 
design, nearly all quite original. The others are taken from 
old MSS.” 

Hilda turned it over delicately and admired it with en- 
thusiasm. Fieldes drew his chair near to hers to show her 
some special letters. 

“What a book it is ! ” he cried. “ Think of its being granted 
to one man to give expression to the aspirations that haunt 
men in all ages. I suppose Father Clement lives upon that 
book as his gospel of renunciation ! ” As he spoke Fieldes 
looked more at Hilda than at the book. He liked to see the 
graceful head bent, the rapt attitude, and he thought he had 
never noticed before the beauty of the shape of her little ear. 

Presently Hilda turned to the end. 

“ What is this hymn, painted by somebody else surely, but 
very pretty too ? ” 


154 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Yes, that was painted by me ; a wretched insertion after 
the rest. But I am so fond of that hymn and it seems to me 
to be such a fit ending to the book. Let me sing it to you 
— but after tea. Now let me put the book away and turn to 
creature consolations ! ” 

Marmaduke here broke in on the tete-d-tete, and thought 
the effect was not artistic. The man was lanky and clumsy, 
and Hilda always looked excited when she was talking to Mr. 
Fieldes. Hilda gave Marmaduke his tea and inquired about 
the horse. 

“ Was it a good one ? ” she said. 

Marmaduke laughed. “ Well it had good points and bad 
points, but you wouldn’t understand either if I tried to 
explain.” 

“ But Mary would, I suppose ? ” said Hilda. 

“ Oh, yes, Mary is a capital judge for a woman.” 

There was something distinctly masculine about Marma- 
duke. He seemed to be always reminding Hilda that she 
was an inferior kind of person, whereas Fieldes exalted her 
in her own eyes. 

“ Do you know,” said Fieldes in his shrill voice, “ that 
while we were doing our spiritual reading, my tea has got 
cold. Will you give me some more ? ” 

“ What was the spiritual reading ? ” asked the other. 

“The Imitation^ said Fieldes. “And by the way. Miss 
Riversdale, remind me to show you a passage of Renan’s, 
a few most exquisite lines on the subject.” 

Marmaduke was disgusted. Hilda reading the Imitation 
and Renan with Mark Fieldes ! He did not know which 
seemed to him the most irreverent. Hilda was cross. She 
did not like the expression on Marmaduke’s face. 

“ If spiritual reading always consisted of admiring illu- 
minations, I don’t think I should miss mine so often.” She 
was annoyed at herself for giving explanations to Marma- 
duke. What business had he to look like that? What 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 1 55 

was the harm if she had read the Gospel itself with Mr. 
Fieldes ? He was perfectly reverent. Only somehow she 
always did give in when Marmaduke looked like that, and 
she was sure Mr. Fieldes understood. He always under- 
stood everything, which made it more annoying. 

As soon as Mr. Fieldes’ tea was disposed of, he went tO' 
the piano and began playing softly. Marmaduke had drawn 
nearer to Hilda, to see the illuminated Following of Christ. 
Fieldes played on, but as nobody spoke, he said in a quick 
sharp tone : — 

“ Do you want to hear the hymn, Miss Riversdale ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Hilda, “ please sing it. Do you need 
the words ? ” 

“ No,” said Mark, “ I know it by heart.” 

Mark sang the hymn well. It always roused his emotions. 
He glanced upwards from time to time as he sang. When 
the religious sentiment was strong in Mr. Fieldes, he always- 
glanced upwards ; it was a relief. 

“ Art thou weary, art thou languid. 

Art thou sore distrest ? 

‘ Come to Me,’ saith One, ‘ and coming, 

Be at rest.’ 

“ Hath He marks to lead me to Him, 

If He be my guide ? 

In His Feet and Hands are wound-prints 
And His Side.” 

Mark was the only one who saw that Mary had come in 
at the other end of the room. She was standing with her 
hand on the door listening. Her face was very pale, and 
her eyes had a set, tired look in them. Something there 
was about her which checked his inclination to stop the 
music and speak to her. He went on with the hymn. 

“ Hath He diadem as monarch 
That His brow adorns ? 

Yea, a crown in very surety. 

But of thorns. 


156 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ If I find Him, if I follow, 

What His guerdon here ? 

Many a sorrow, many a labour, 

Many a tear.” 

Fieldes glanced down the room. Mary’s face was very 
sad, but he saw that she was listening intently. The 
childish expression had left the blue eyes, and the very fair- 
ness of the colouring seemed to reveal little lines of pain 
round the mouth. 

“Was she in love?” thought Fieldes, “did she care for 
the dark-haired soldier too ? ” 

It was a new view of the circumstances ; but he instantly 
dismissed it. His power of vision was too true. He had 
sung half the next verse while this thought came and went. 

“ If I still hold closely to Him, 

What hath He at last ? 

Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, 

Jordan past. 

“ If I ask Him to receive me, 

Will He say me nay ? 

Not till earth and not till Heaven 
Pass away. 

“ Finding, following, keeping, struggling. 

Is He sure to bless ? 

Angels, martyrs, prophets, virgins. 

Answer Yes. 

“ Amen.” 

The timbre of Fieldes’ voice seemed to vibrate with the 
great question in the last verse ; but it was hardly equal to 
the concluding line. 

There was a moment’s silence. Fieldes had looked at the 
others. Then he turned towards Mary, but she was gone. 

For some moments he became distrait. He hardly heard 
what they said. There was some mystery about Mary, some 
moral condition which he could not even guess at. She 


MARK SINGS A HYMN. 


157 


puzzled him. “ We needs must love the highest when we 
see it/’ had long been his favourite quotation. After the first 
day at Skipton he had ranked Mary as the highest nature 
there. Yet he thought he did not love Mary, and he was 
very nearly in love with Hilda. 

It was not simply that Hilda was, he believed, an heiress, 
for Mary was far the greater heiress of the two ; but that 
Mary seemed to belong to another sphere, a sphere which 
he honestly told himself was out of his own reach. He had 
hitherto believed that sphere to be a happy one. He had 
thought that the children of the saints had at least the con- 
solation which gave them the heaven they hoped for in their 
own breasts. However rarefied and exhausting that heaven 
might appear to others, he had supposed that it meant joy to 
them. But if this were so, where, in Mary’s case, was this joy, 
— the light of faith and serenity that illuminates prophets, 
virgins, saints and martyrs, in their testimony ? What was 
it that obscured the radiance with which Mary “ Answered 
yes ” ? 

That evening he gave her his beautiful copy of the Imitation 
as a parting gift. She was very simple, sweet and courteous 
in accepting it ; but he found it lying neglected on the hall 
table next morning when he took his departure from Skipton- 
le-Grange. 


I 


PART II. 


CHAPTER I. 

LAURA’S EMBASSY. 

Thursday morning was dark in London, and by the after- 
noon a yellow fog had settled down over the West End. 
Mrs. Hurstmonceaux gave up a projected round of calls as the 
weather had become impossible. She thought she would not 
go out. About four o’clock however a telegram was brought 
in, and she instantly changed her mind and said that the 
brougham was to come round at once. 

Laura’s eyes sparkled as she read the telegram again and 
again : — 

“ Have got away. Can you come to me ? — Madge.” 

“ Already ! ” she cried joyfully, and she went down on 
Monday. She has only been able to endure it for two 
days.” 

“ Have got away.” The three words conveyed all that 
Laura wanted to know. If the visit had been anything but 
a complete failure Madge would not have sent such a telegram. 

“ I must make sure of her state of mind before I speak,” 
she thought ; “ but I am inclined to think that boldness will 
be the safest policy. I don’t see anything to be gained by 
delay.” 

A quarter of an hour later and Laura, muffled in black velvet 

(158) 


LAURA’S EMBASSY. 


159 


and sables, was driving, slowly on account of the darkness, 
in her faultless brougham across the park, a little elated and 
excited, and not quite in her usual conventional attitude. 

She came into Madge’s drawing-room eagerly, stretching 
out both hands. Then she paused and looked at her with a 
dramatic intensity of sympathy. 

“ Dear friend, how have you borne it ? ” 

Madge rose briskly, pushed aside a little pile of notes, and 
almost ran up to her. 

“ Ah,” she cried, seizing her by both hands, “ the comfort 
of having you again, Laura.” But her tone soon changed. 
She pushed the tall stately figure of her friend gently into a 
chair, and taking up her cigarette, puffed a moment in silence. 

Then she cried : “ Ah, Laura, what it was ! The boredom 
of it ! Mrs. Riversdale and her monk ! The whole family 
wanting to convert me ! ” 

“Yet it was right that you should go there, so right,” said 
Laura earnestly, and her pale face was lit up with a stern 
sense of duty. 

“ Well,” said Madge, “ it is over now, so let us be merry. 
Ohime ! what’s been going on ? ” 

“What is going on?” said Laura cheerfully. “Well, 
there was a charming party last night at Lady F.’s. She 
has discovered a dear little singing bird of a woman with 
the most lovely blue eyes, an innocent child, but with the 
timbre of every passion in her voice.” 

“Ah,” answered Madge, “was it as crowded as usual ? ” 

Madge did not know Lady F. Laura did very slightly. 

“ Oh, no, only a few friends^ nothing formal.” 

“ I see,” said Madge, looking down at her notes, “ that the 
Duchess of A. is going to give a ball already.” 

Laura did not know the Duchess of A. Madge did. 

“ Then,” Mrs. Hurstmonceaux continued, “ I went yester- 
day to the meeting of the Society for Protecting Circus Girls. 
Oh, my dear, the things they told me. But why make your 


i6o 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


heart ache too ? You have been through enough trouble 
already. But tell me,” she added suddenly, “ more of the 
visit to Skipton. The family seems to be not without its 
attractions. Mr. Mark Fieldes tells me in a letter to-day 
that they are all charming, particularly the fair girl who 
rides, and the monk who preaches. I think he was also 
impressed by the number of the male retinue and the amount 
of silver plate.” 

“ Oh ! Fve done with it,” said Madge, “ I’ve been back for 
the last time. The whole life there stifles me. It is a huge 
relief to have done with it. I might have imagined that it 
had an influence over me, that I could not break with it. I 

am very sensitive to local impressions, to houses, to ” she 

hesitated. “ Now that it is over, I feel a little tired^ and I 
want to be amused. I want to see my friends.” 

“ And your friends want you,” said Laura with solemn 
emotion, and there followed another pause. Laura rose. 
“ The fact is, Madge, I had better be straightforward, as I 
don’t know how to be diplomatic. I have something to tell 
you, and I hardly know how to do it.” 

Madge started, but Laura saw very little surprise in the 
nervous tremor, only a good deal of anxiety. 

“ Cecilia ? ” cried Madge. 

“ Nothing whatever to do with poor Cecilia,” said Laura 
in a voice charged with meaning. Madge looked relieved. 

“ But what it has to do with is harder to explain. I must 
do the old old thing. I must tell you a story. I must sit 
here, as I don’t wish to see your face. I feel unequal to my 
role of ambassador, as I have to treat with the princess 
herself.” 

Every word she spoke, in spite of the playful flattering tone, 
was excruciating to Madge’s nerves. She was so intensely 
anxious as to what was coming that all her energies were 
forced into the one effort at physical self-control. She did 
not speak. 


LAURA’S EMBASSY. 


6l 


“ I have a friend,” began Laura, but a slight movement 
of Madge’s shoulders made her add, — “ if I may venture to 
call him so, — who is very honourable, very chivalrous. He 
has set his heart upon a great wish ; and although other 
people can hardly believe that his wishes could not be gratified, 
he has many doubts himself. However, of those I need not 
speak. Briefly, Madge, this man has suffered very much 
because, although he has been flattered, he has not been 
loved. He married” — Madge sank back in the arm-chair — 
“ he married somebody who loved him even as savages love 
and no deeper. It seemed to him an idyll in the wilderness. 
Nobody knew of this marriage in his own land. It was the 
love of a summer’s day, brief as it was fiery. Then came 
disillusion, disloyalty, a low story. It was to have been 
another Lord of Burleigh and his lady ; it was in fact merely 
a prairie episode, love, drink, madness — even I believe some 
attempt at assassination. He was very young at the time, 
very rash, but he was magnanimous. He made every arrange- 
ment for the unfortunate girl after her lover had deserted her. 
He was, according to the laws of the country, easily set free. 
Madge, a man who dares not trust himself to speak to you, 
who longs to make perpetual the brief sunshine of your 
presence at Bellasis, has a scruple. He wishes me to tell 
you of the existence of this poor half-mad girl in a convent 
in some obscure South American State.” 

Madge rose at these last words and stood facing Laura, but 
with no speculation any longer in her grey eyes, which were 
stretched to their fullest extent. Laura looked at her as 
freely as she would have looked at a somnambulist. There 
was no sort of risk that Madge should observe her expression. 

“ Dear child, do not say anything to me. Do not let me 
intrude further into this sacred privacy. I have most un- 
willingly brought my message. Now let the messenger be 
discarded,” and she rose as she spoke. 

Madge turned away as Laura finished speaking ; she 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


162 

clutched at the chimneypiece as if to save herself from fall- 
ing. There was a moment of complete silence. Madge 
seemed to have a difficulty in speaking ; then, in a low voice, 
she said huskily : — 

“ But doesn’t he — don’t you know that I am a Catholic ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, but he wouldn’t mind that in the least,” said 
Laura cheerfully. 

‘‘ But, then,” said Madge, almost in a whisper, don’t 
you even know what Catholics call such a marriage ? ” 

Laura flushed red with anger. 

“ Madge, this is absurd. Is this your answer to his sensi- 
tive chivalry ? ” she said coldly. 

“ But, but ” said Madge again. 

‘‘ No, don’t go on,” said Laura with cold decision, “ don’t 
say things that you will regret. If you wish to take a line 
of that kind, if you wish to air views of that rarefied descrip- 
tion, choose your audience, my dear. Remember my cousin, 
Mrs. Amherst, for one, who is good enough to be my friend, 
who married John Amherst, an innocent divorcee and a most 
upright man. No, no, go back to Skipton and say all that 
to them. We are not good enough for you in London.” 

There was temper in this, and temper well managed may 
look very much like surprise. Madge only took in part of 
what was said to her. She was half terrified and half stupe- 
fied at suddenly hearing transformed into substantial fact a 
dream which had seemed to her almost beyond possibility, 
and being brought close to a temptation which had appeared 
for weeks as distant as the dream had been improbable. 
Bellasis did love her. The ideal vision which had haunted 
her could be realised. And she was, in an instant, brought 
face to face with the cost which must be counted. 

Laura was still standing, and she drew on her gloves. 
Her action roused Madge, and she put out her hand to 
detain her. 

“ Don’t go.” 


LAURA’S EMBASSY. 


163 


Laura sat down and waited for what would be said next. 
The idea of suggesting a consultation with wide-minded 
priests had not left her mind, but she began to think, as she 
watched Madge, that it certainly would not do to allude to 
it just now. 

“ No, no,” Madge whispered, clutching her hands together 
and speaking to herself; “ no, no, 1 never could have meant 
that, I never saw it, indeed I never did. When I left the 
chapel, when I couldn’t go to confession, surely, surely I 
never meant that. Don’t Laura,” and now she looked at 
her more directly ; “ no, don’t speak. From your point of 
view I know what it would be. Position, life, glorious life, 
freedom from the past, — but I can’t, no, indeed I can’t. Oh,” 
Madge sank down on the high cushioned fender, and seemed 
to shrink together into a very small figure indeed, “oh, 
Laura, if I didn’t believe too much, if I hadn’t been brought 
up by those nuns, if they weren’t praying for me now, what 
a glorious life I could have.” A sparkle shone in the dul- 
ness of her eyes. “ Oh, isn’t it hard ? ” she held out her 
hands towards the warmth, and turned herself away from 
Laura. 

Laura, seeing that she was too unstrung to be suspicious, 
tried a bold shot. 

“ Then you had no notion of this mad episode in his 
youth ? It is indeed a blow for you.” ^ 

“ Yes, I knew,” said Madge faintly. 

“You knew?” cried Laura in astonishment, “and yet 

with your views ” she sank speechless on the nearest 

chair. 

“ At least I knew there was enough to prevent a Catholic 
marrying him.” Madge was too completely absorbed by her 
own emotions to notice Laura. 

“ Poor man ! ” cried Laura, “ certainly there is a law of 
compensation that deals hardly by the great. How he has 
been misled ! ” 


164 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


The word was well chosen to bring Madge to her senses. 

“ Misled ! ” she cried. “ What do you mean ? ” and she 
drew her tiny figure to its full height. 

“ I think I never in my life heard of such a muddle ! ” said 
Laura ; “ what could have made you stay all those months 
at Bellasis ? ” 

“ Months ? — I was never there for a month at a time.” 

“ Don’t you see how you have treated him ? ” 

“No, I do not,” cried Madge hysterically; “I knew I 
could not marry him and I knew that he knew it.” 

“ How did you know ? ” 

“ Cecilia told me.” 

“ Cecilia ! Then Cecilia knows the whole story. They 
must be very intimate. My poor Madge, I beg your pardon.” 
She paused. “ I see it all now. I ought never to have come. 
He ought not to have put me in such a position. How 
difficult it is to understand men, to follow their moods ! 
You must own that it looks on the face of it as if you had 
treated him very badly. But he will understand some day 
if he cannot understand now. Some day,” her look and 
voice became dreamy, “ Cecilia will no doubt tell him all 
about it, and they may respect you the more for scruples 
that seem to me and to the civilised world absurd.” 

The ambiguity of Laura’s mysterious sentences, the kind 
of fog under which she apparently wished to retire, puzzled 
the now irritated Madge. She was the kind of woman 
whose emotions naturally effervesce in wrath, but she did 
not dare lose her hold upon herself just now. That she was 
being insulted she was certain, and that she must bear it 
for the moment was clear. After all, the game was in her 
own hands ; after all, Bellasis had spoken what he could 
not retract. How easy it would be some day to put Laura 
in her proper place if, if, — and even in that moment of con- 
fusion, a castle in the air rose before her in the crudely 
concrete form of Lady Bellasis refusing a tenth, nay a 


LAURA’S EMBASSY. 


165 

twentieth invitation to dine at the Hurstmonceaux’. She 
pulled herself up at the puerile trick of imagination, and she 
shivered. 

Laura was standing again. She had said her say and 
she wanted to go. She had fired her last shot, her allusion 
to Cecilia. Madge had made absolutely no answer. She 
was so angry that if other motives had not been too strong 
for her she would have quarrelled with Laura on the spot. 
But, as Laura knew well, that was impossible. She let 
Laura say her good-bye, and received her kiss coldly, but 
instantly reflecting on her folly pursued her on to the landing 
with a peace-offering of value to them both. 

Laura had gone half-way down the stairs. Madge could 
just see her bonnet. 

“ Laura,'* she called out, “ if you have nothing better to do 
on Thursday, this day week, do come in to luncheon. Miss 
Armitage, the author of Lily-white^ who I hope is coming, 
will amuse you. The Duchess of A. wants to meet her.” 

A smiling countenance became visible through the banis- 
ters. 

“ Certainly, dear,” answered Laura ; “ I do so want to 
meet Miss Armitage.” 

They parted, and Madge went back into the drawing-room 
alone. She walked up to the fireplace and looked into the 
fire for a moment. She caught sight of her face in the glass 
above it and was startled at its whiteness. “ Well, that is 
settled,” she said in a whisper. “ I suppose she will tell 
Bellasis to-night. Now I must not stop to think. I’ll 
write those notes and then dress for dinner.” She sat down 
and wrote two notes hastily but not less neatly than usual. 
One was to Miss Armitage, the other to the Duchess of A. 
Then she heaved a deep sigh before she began a third. 
“ One thing is clear,” she said aloud, “ whatever may be the 
end of this, there will come a time when I shan’t endure 
Laura Hurstmonceaux.” 


i66 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


The third note was to the said Laura. 

“ Dearest friend (she wrote), forgive me if, in my pain 
and sorrow to-night, I failed in lovingness to you. 

“ You will not utter a single syllable of our conversation to 
any living human being ? not even to Lord Bellasis ? I 
must take my own way of telling him the truth. I cannot 
bear he should think the sacrifice less than that of my whole 
life. Only leave me a little quiet, a little peace just now. 

“ Ever yours, with much love, 

Madge.” 


CHAPTER. II. 


HILDA IN LONDON. 

The Duchess of A. was among those who had stayed at 
Bellasis Castle in the autumn and had rather liked Madge ; 
so she lunched with her on the meagre excuse of meet- 
ing Miss Armitage. It was a pleasant meal. Besides Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux there were two friends of the duchess, a 
diplomatist who had published a book of really good poetry, and 
a distinguished Irish litterateur who wrote eloquent articles on 
contemporary foreign politics. They were the most proper 
circle that could be imagined ; and they analysed from the 
highest standpoint two plays then being acted in Paris, and 
decided what points must be left out so as to fit one of them, 
an excellent story in itself, for the English stage. 

“ The teeth must be drawn of course, before the British 
public will look at it,” agreed the diplomat. 

“ But then how will it bite ? ” came in the shy voice of Miss 
Armitage, whose remarks were very civilly treated through- 
out. 

When they adjourned to the drawing-room, the duchess 
remembered that this insignificant looking little person had 
written Lily-white ; so being really a very lady-like woman 
she talked to her about it with the greatest good humour, 
plainly showing that she had not read the book, and adding 
that she thought it quite a charming story. After she had 
done her duty in this way for a few minutes, the duchess left 
and her two friends followed in her wake. Miss Armitage 
shyly removed herself also, wondering if what had passed 

(167) 


i68 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


would be of any use in her next story, slight as it had all 
been. 

Madge and Mrs. Hurstmonceaux were in high good 
humour. 

“ My dear Madge, I had no idea what a remarkable woman 
the duchess was before. If we had more women like that 
in London ! I don’t mean so much her beauty or her wits 
alone, it is the something in her personality, the fine in- 
dividuality in everything she says and does.” 

“ Yes,” answered Madge eagerly, “ I really feel that she 
has been to me a liberal education, as some one once said of 
somebody else.” 

Then they passed to Miss Armitage. The same good 
humour and brightness underlay their talk : and when Mr. 
Fieldes called about half an hour afterwards, he met with a 
gracious welcome. 

Now when Fieldes had called a few days earlier, on 
his return from Skipton, he had been very differently re- 
ceived, and it had been plainly conveyed to him that 
two other friends who were present had made very good 
company before he came in. Some men would at least 
have let Madge alone for a while after that ; but from a 
certain incapacity for dealing with human beings Fieldes 
never could leave things alone. The result of this kind of 
complaisance was that he got a good deal bullied by his 
friends. Madge was not a person of very great consequence, 
but she had a good many friends that were, and she was of 
quite sufficient importance among them to fulfil Fieldes’ 
notion of what his lady friends should be. For some days 
he had been worrying his head as to what he could do to please 
Madge, and he had now brought with him a little book which 
she had once expressed a wish to read. Fieldes was therefore 
much relieved at his reception, the cordiality of which may 
have been partly due to the fact that she had heard the 
Duchess of A. say that the duke was immensely pleased by 


HILDA IN LONDON. 


169 

an article on the bill for “ making it easier for people to get 
rid of their property, you know,” in the current number of the 
Bi-monthly. It was written by a Mr. Mark Fieldes who must 
be wonderfully clever. 

So genial was the atmosphere that Fieldes saw that his 
little book would be a superfluous offering, and decided to 
suppress it. 

Presently Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, who had gone to the 
window to judge of the weather, exclaimed : — 

“ Who is your visitor, Madge ? A lady’s trunks and a maid 
paying the cabman.” 

“ Oh, it is Hilda, I had quite forgotten all about her ! ” 

Just in time to hear these words Hilda appeared in her 
gipsy red travelling cloak and her high black feather hat. 
A journey is seldom beautifying, and the first effect was not 
good. Fieldes felt disconcerted. He had told Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux that Hilda though rather countrified was distin- 
guished looking. But in these surroundings, with Madge and 
Laura in exquisite clothing, she looked dusty and untidy. And 
it was annoying too that his friend should see her receive so 
slight a welcome from her hostess. But Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, 
who was the leading spirit at the moment, created a diversion. 
She beamed upon Hilda and after a dramatic aside to Madge, 
“ What glorious eyes ! ” asked to be introduced. 

“ I have so often heard of you from Madge,” she said 
immediately, with more readiness than strict regard to facts. 

“ May I take my things upstairs, Madge ? ” Hilda inquired 
after a few moments, and Madge rang and sent her to her 
room. When she came down again she found that Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux had gone, but that two other visitors had 
come in. Madge had hardly given Hilda credit for the savoir 
faire which had made her carry her train-begrimed clothes 
into retirement so quickly ; and really the black net frock 
which she had saved from last summer had not at all a bad 
effect. As she came forward, a young man rose from behind 


170 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


a screen near the fireplace and came to meet her. It was 
Marmaduke. He said, “ How d’ye do, Hilda ? ” in an 
almost solemn voice, and having shaken hands with her 
went back to his seat. 

Hilda had greeted him with a quick nervous movement ; 
and she was not sorry to sit down near Mr. Fieldes, who 
beamed upon her and seemed unobservant of any embarrass- 
ment on her part. Her attention was soon attracted to a 
lady who stood near Marmaduke with her back towards the 
rest of the company. This was a girl in a rough tweed cloak, 
and a very short frieze skirt of the kind that is sold for 
“ charitable purposes ” in the big shops. One foot she had 
extended on to the kerb of the fireplace, in an elaborate high- 
heeled shoe which displayed a good deal of ankle in an 
open-worked stocking splashed with mud. Her hat was 
a coquettish toque very neatly veiled. Her right hand, on 
which shone some splendid rings, was holding on to the 
chimneypiece. The effect produced by this medley was like 
the disguise of a countess preparing to elope in an extra- 
vaganza. 

“ Are you ready for tea, Cecilia ? ” Madge inquired ; and 
in a voice even softer than her own, Cecilia Rupert answered. 

“ Directly I have dried this foot, my dear,” and she held 
that delicate object nearer to the fire. 

“ Where did you get into such a puddle ? ” 

“ In Regent Circus,” she answered. “ I had missed so 
many ’busses all the afternoon at different corners that I grew 
desperate, and I made a great jump at one which landed me 
in a puddle. But a charming young painter pulled me up. I 
hope he has not painted me, has he ? ” and she turned herself 
round appealing to Marmaduke to look. 

“ I don’t detect any paint anywhere,” he answered laugh- 
ing. 

Cecilia continued, her tone being that of languid recita- 
tive. 


HILDA IN LONDON. 


171 

“ He told me that he and his father are employed by the 
Board of Works, but he don’t think much of them it seems. 

I told him my father was dead, and he asked me if he had 
been in the shoemaking line while he was alive ; but he was 
rather shy of me, though I let him know that we had been 
in the cattle-breeding business.” 

“ You astonish Marmaduke,” said Madge, “you know he' 
has been some years in India.” 

“ In India ? ” said Cecilia, turning her large light eyes on 
him in a caressing manner, which might have been flattering 
to an oppressive degree, only that just as it seemed to become 
person^ an absent look came into her orbs as if she were 
puzzling to make out what it was she was looking at. “ In 
India ? ” and she seemed to remember that it was a man’s 
head that was before her. “ Ah, I wonder I never met you ; 
but we may have been there at different times, and there is a 
good deal of space in India.” 

“ But I want to know where you went this afternoon ? ” 
interrupted Madge. 

“ I went to the city,” said the young lady, resuming her re- 
citation. “ I went to see if I could get a sealskin coat cheap 
there. I got one,” she concluded sadly, “ for seventy pounds. 
It was a bet that seventy pounds. Now it is quite dry, isn’t 
it ? ” and she kicked her shoe off in the direction of Marma- 
duke who carefully felt the sole and pronounced it to be quite 
dry. 

“ Thank you,” answered Cecilia, and without holding on to 
anything or stooping she stood on one foot and pulled the 
shoe on to the other with her hand. 

“ It takes a great deal of practice to do that with grace, 
she said to nobody in particular. “ Noze/ I want tea, Madge, 
my beloved,” and she sank into a chair near the tea-table. 

“ A bet ! what about ? ” 

“ It was a game of leap-frog. They thought I couldn’t 
play, but I could you know — there was Sydney Lightfoot 


172 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and Lord Rankin and Lord Bellasis. The bet was with 
Bellasis.” 

A moment was spent in sipping her tea. “ Mark! ” was her 
next observation. “ Mark, Fve been reading your article in the 
Bi-monthly, Everybody is talking of it. It is exactly what I 
have always thought on the subject, only I’ve never found time 
to write it, and I shouldn’t know how to spell thewords you use.” 

“ I wish you would help me now,” observed Fieldes, “ in 
an article I am just going to begin on Signs of the Revo- 
lution ’. I am going to mention the new craze for mixing 
with the lower classes. Your going in ’busses for instance. 
Do you think the people will put up with you any better 
because you jostle among them ? The only chance we have 
is to be idealised or feared from a distance.” 

“ Thank you,” said Cecilia, bowing with mock politeness. 
“ I will try to remember that I ought only to be seen from 
a distance.” 

“ ‘ On nearer view a vision yet a woman too,’ ” quoted 
Fieldes. But mind my words,” he continued in a mock 
Cassandra tone ; “ if you let these people see you saving 
pennies for your own ends you are done for. I don’t know 
which will be more fatal to the present regime^ its frank 
avowal of its fierce wish to save money, or its determination 
to spend hundreds on jackets ! ” 

“ I think your remark is hardly logical,” said Madge. 

Fatal to be seen saving pennies and fatal to spend 
hundreds on jackets ! ” 

“ It is because you save the pennies to buy the jackets,” 
said Cecilia in a cross voice, “ or at least I do, it appears. 
Mr. Fieldes takes life so very literally, but his remarks are, 
I will say for him, generally more crude than illogical. 
Mr. Marmaduke, for I think that is what they call you, will 
you ring the bell ? For the sake of the present rigime, 
though I don’t think it deserves much, I will go home in 
a hansom.” 


HILDA IN LONDON. 173 

Cecilia was standing about while she waited for the cab 
when Madge spoke next. 

“ By the way, Cecilia, what are you doing to-morrow ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Cecilia ; “ I hardly know — oh, yes, I intend to 
hurry the country on to socialism by going with a lot of 
girls to the pit at the Haymarket. We shall be quite a 'bus 
load from Grosvenor Place,” she pirouetted on her toes as 
she spoke and whistled the Marseillaise “ By the way, 
Madge, could you extend to me the light of your chaperon- 
age at the Doncaster’s to-night ? I never go anywhere 
without one or two chaperons,” she concluded. After the 
most delicate kiss bestowed on Madge’s forehead she went 
off, escorted to the door by Marmaduke. 

“ I think I am getting just a little tired of Cecilia,” 
observed Madge, as soon as she had vanished. 

“ She is very fatiguing,” said Fieldes with feeling. “ You 
should have seen her at Duntrevor when the duchess told us 
that Bellasis was going to be married. She acted the wildest 
spirits ; but she looked hideously sad at moments, till Tom 
Duffin purposely sang a verse of ‘ Punchinello,’ to tease her, — 
‘ he never danced or sang so madly as that night, the people 
said ’.” 

“ What did she do ? ” inquired Madge. 

“ She gave him a box on the ear and told him not to sing 
out of tune. She was in a rage. We were all laughing.” 
Evidently Fieldes gloated over this little incident. 

“ What a horrid shame to treat a girl like that ! ” cried 
Hilda indignantly. 

“Oh!” said Madge, “you don’t know her; she is quite 
up to taking care of herself.” 

“ And no one,” said Fieldes almost tenderly, “ no one 
would treat a nice quiet girl like that; but these young 
women must give and take.” 

“ I quite agree with Hilda,” exclaimed Marmaduke, who 
had returned and had been listening to what passed, and who 


174 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


would have contradicted Fieldes on any topic. “ It is a 
shame to treat a girl like that. She has her feelings though 
she may be a little wild ! ” 

This eager defence was hardly pleasing to Hilda. 

“You see, Miss Riversdale,” struck in Fieldes, “the prim 
good girl is quite out of fashion. Motley’s all the wear ; you 
must learn to do likewise.” 

“ You couldn’t if you tried,” said Marmaduke. 

“ You think I am not clever enough,” Hilda said, looking 
at him rather crossly. 

“ Not in that kind of cleverness,” he rejoined. 

Madge turned to Fieldes. 

“Tell us,” she said, “of something rational to do. 1 am 
not up to Hilda’s heights of intellect. What are you doing 
just now ? ” 

“ I am frivolling chiefly. By the way, shall we meet at 
Lady Doncaster’s to-night ? ” 

“ I am dining there,” said Madge, with a touch of evident 
satisfaction. 

“ So am I,” said Fieldes nonchalantly. 

Madge’s manner warmed to him at once. To dine at 
Lady Doncaster’s was an event to herself. 

Hilda had at once turned to Marmaduke while Madge 
spoke to Fieldes. 

“ I don’t see,” she said, “ that it wants so much cleverness 
to be like that Cecilia — by the way, what is her surname ? ” 

“ Miss Rupert, Lord Rupert’s sister.” 

“ But I do think it wants a great deal of prettiness and 
gracefulness. I think she is charming to watch.” 

“ For heaven’s sake don’t take her for a model ! ” 

“ No,” answered Hilda still crossly. Some sudden whim 
made her anxious to extract a compliment from Marmaduke. 
“ I haven’t the grace, the beauty, the wherewithal, I know.” 

“ Do you mean to be contradicted ? ” said Marmaduke, 
looking at her rather eagerly. 


HILDA IN LONDON. 


175 


“ No, I don’t,” said Hilda sharply. 

“ If it were Miss Rupert talking of you now, I could 
manage it.” 

“ Of course,” interrupted Hilda. 

“ But I can’t pay compliments,” a change in his tone 
struck her and she kept her eyes fixed on the carpet. “ I 
can’t pay compliments where I really care.” 

Hilda knew that he was looking at her, and after a 
moment’s hesitation began to wish that she could see what 
he was looking like ; but it was a difficult thing to manage. 
A furtive attempt at glancing upwards through her long 
eyelashes, after the manner of a naughty child, was begin- 
ning, when the sharp quick voice of Mr. Fieldes made her 
start. 

“ Should you care to see the Positivist Chapel, Miss 
Riversdale ? ” 

It was annoying, but it was also an escape from 
embarrassment. 

“ Of all things ! ” she cried. “ What is it like ? ” 

“ That is just what I want to know,” said Fieldes. “ I 
want to see the practical cultus of Humanity. It is in the 
city, so that it is within reach of the poor in the east end.” 

What had become of Marmaduke ? He was gone and 
Madge with him. 

“ You can’t think how to-day changes the atmosphere of 
London for me,” said Fieldes, seizing the moment for a 
little sentiment. 

Hilda looked straight at him without the least embarrass- 
ment. 

“ It is chilly to-night,” she said. 

“Very,” answered Fieldes rather sarcastically. “Ah, 
Mrs. Riversdale,” as Madge reappeared, “ I’ve spent an 
unconscionable time here. Good-night, or rather au revoir,'" 
He too was gone and neither he nor Marmaduke had said 
good-bye to Hilda. She was young enough to be afraid 


176 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


that they were hopelessly offended, and she didn’t want to 
offend Mr. Fieldes. 

Madge, directly they were alone, went on with her own 
thoughts, which turned on Cecilia. 

“ How do you like Cecilia ? ” she inquired. 

Very much,” said Hilda eagerly ; “ and there is some- 
thing so pathetic about her eyes.” 

“I don’t quite see the pathos,” said Madge ; “ of course she 
looks absurdly old for her age, but that is the way she 
rackets. It would want the strength of two men to lead her 
life. There is nothing she doesn’t try to do. But it doesn’t 
answer, you know, to play the fool like that. A man like 
Lord Bellasis will amuse himself with a girl like Cecilia just 
to pass the time, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.” 

“ But he can’t be a very nice man to do that, can he ? ” 
asked Hilda. 

“ Yes, he can,” answered Madge sharply ; “ he is one of 
the most perfect gentlemen I know. And I don’t blame her. 
Any girl would be thankful to get him. Seventy thousand 
a year, Bellasis Castle, an angelic yacht, and a sublime 
shooting box, besides the title — older than the deluge, and 
hardly a relation living nearer than a cousin I I can’t say I 
blame Cecilia, except for not seeing how little he cares for 
her. Just like him to give her seventy pounds for making 
a fool of herself.” 

Yet that seventy pounds had annoyed Madge a good 
deal. 

“ Well, I can’t think a nice man would play with a girl.” 

“ Don’t be absurd, Hilda. Didn’t you see that Marmaduke 
was chaffing her about the paint, though he hadn’t even 
been introduced ; and she meant him to do it too.” 

“ I say, Madge,” said Hilda with an effort, “ is it true that 
Marmaduke was in love with you — of course before you 
married, I mean ? ” 

Madge had never heard of such an idea before, but she 


HILDA IN LONDON. 


177 


was perfectly ready to receive it. Of course it was true, and 
that was why he was so absurdly careful to avoid flirtation 
now. 

“ Well, my dear, and if he were ? ” Madge’s smile was a 
satisfied one ; but it had something provoking in it too, and 
Hilda blushed scarlet to her own great annoyance. 

Hilda had a little dinner by herself that evening, but she 
did not find it dull. Was not there enough to think about 
on this arrival in London to have filled up a whole week of 
lonely evenings ? Oh that blessed facility of excitement, 
when one is eighteen, and the drama seems to have been 
arranged for one’s own role in what one imagines to be a 
comedy ! How could she have hoped for this delightful 
visit ? Did it not seem when Madge spoke of it at Skipton 
to be the most impossible of events ? In fact it had been 
a combination of circumstances that had overcome Mrs. 
Arthur Riversdale’s doubts as to Madge’s fitness as a 
chaperon. First, the openly stated reason had been the 
scarlet fever which had attacked the young housemaid, and 
made it dangerous for Hilda to go home from Skipton. 
Secondly, and chiefly, there was the unmentioned attraction 
of Marmaduke’s presence in London. That Marmaduke was 
most anxious that Hilda should accept Madge’s invitation, 
and that he evidently had other motives than the alleged 
one of Madge’s good, had been conveyed to Mrs. Arthur 
Riversdale by the squire. The squire was anxious for the 
visit, not only from a benevolent wish that Hilda and 
Marmaduke should meet again, but because he wished to 
keep in touch with Madge, and Hilda’s presence would be 
additional security that Marmaduke would know what she 
was doing, and would afford a convenient pretext for visits 
to Madge from other members of the family. He had no 
scruple, therefore, in persuading his sister-in-law to let Hilda 
pay this visit, and the unspoken, unacknowledged worldliness 
that the best of women may feel for their daughters, however 

12 


1/8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


completely they have lost it for themselves, made Mrs. Arthur 
more ready to acknowledge the squire’s wisdom and to view 
Madge as charitably as possible. 

After dinner Hilda went upstairs and settled herself in a 
corner of Madge’s big sofa with a Nineteenth Century ^ and 
prepared herself for a literary evening and the forbidden joys 
of black coffee. But though she was wide awake, in an 
excited over-tired state, the clearness of brain was delusive. 
She shut up her book and tried to return to the day-dreams 
of London life which had filled her mind during dinner, dreams 
in which shadowy figures of young statesmen, and geniuses 
of all kinds and sorts, made vague speeches which she 
answered herself with singular brilliancy. But the shadowy 
figures would not come again ; only two substantial realities, 
to whom she had not spoken either wisely or well that very 
afternoon, Mr. Mark Fieldes and Marmaduke. 

“ People never repeat themselves,” sighed Hilda; not a bad 
sentence that, which was soothing. Marmaduke wasn’t quite 
the same as at Skipton, nor was Mr. Fieldes, nor, most annoy- 
ing of all, did she feel quite the same herself. The fact was 
that she had experienced an uncomfortable moment when 
she had seen Marmaduke unexpectedly that day, yet she 
had been wondering during her journey if she should see 
him. “ I don’t care and I won’t care what he is doing, or 
how handsome he looks, or what he cares about,” said 
Hilda, and she gave the cushion at the bottom of the sofa 
a little vicious kick. “ And I’m not at all sure he ought to 
come here as he once cared for Madge ; it is too soon after 
George’s death It is like a bat — I mean a moth — and a 
candle. And I don’t like his manners with Cecilia, and 
after all I’m not his cousin ; and what I do is no business 
of his ; and he oughtn’t to look at me — I’m not a king — and 
if there is a thing I hate it is a virtuous flirt ! ” 

Hilda was tired and she was almost crying, and that 
would be too absurd. 


HILDA IN LONDON. 


179 


“ I wonder if Mr. Mark Fieldes has ever been in love 
before ? I doubt it. I wonder if I hurt him to-day. I 
don’t want to hurt him — I suspect I am in love with him ; 
the fact is I’ve got rather a cold nature or I should feel 
more about it. I want to have him as a friend, and wouldn’t it 
be grand to convert him ! And any how I won’t be a nasty 
flirt. I hope I shall have a great deal of talk with Mr. Mark 
Fieldes.” 

But then came Brown the maid (venturing into the 
drawing-room with a deferential softness of tread) who 
recommended bed ; and Hilda was just old enough not to 
resent the suggestion, so to bed she went. 


CHAPTER III. 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


“ Saturday. 

“ Dear Mother, 

“ I was sorry to send you only that hurried line 
yesterday. To-night I shall have plenty of time, for Madge 
has gone out to dinner and I have the house to myself. 

“ Perhaps I am inclined to feel dull to-night because last 
night was so exciting, which proves that I am eminently 
spoilable. Last night Madge had some people to dinner. 
There were five visitors, and Marmaduke, who did host. 
The visitors were Miss Cecilia Rupert, Mr. Fieldes and a 
Mr. and Mrs. Salvolatile. She is a Jewess and they roll in 
wealth ; she is quite strangely ugly. Madge says he loathes 
her, but he married her because he was hard up. He is 
very handsome and she worships him — from a distance, 
Madge says. He was the son of a great tailor, but he is 
very smart indeed. Then besides Cecilia Rupert and Marma- 
duke, there was a Lord James something whom they all 
called ^^Tim,” and who lives by selling cigars and getting 
people to insure their dogs. But he told Cecilia that he had 
serious thoughts of becoming a dressmaker. I don’t think 
the talk at dinner would amuse you much. It was all about 
people they knew. Mr. Fieldes tried to bring me into it 
sometimes, and Cecilia tried to amuse Marmaduke, but as 
soon as the others mentioned some one they knew, these 
two chimed in at once. Mrs. Salvolatile hardly spoke, but 
listened intently to her husband, and seemed to be making 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


I8l 


eyes at him — such little, twinkling eyes, not at all my idea 
of a Jewess ! 

“ The way she went on was so funny, and his kind ot 
snubbing glances, that it seemed almost as though they did 
it for show ! In the middle of dinner Mr. Salvolatile began 
to abuse the Jews. Lord Tim shut him up and told very 
funny stories of his own shooting in Africa. There is some- 
thing very taking and jolly about Lord Tim, although one 
or two of his stories made me a little shy. After dinner 
Mrs. Salvolatile began to talk to Madge about shopping. 
Cecilia joined in and they told each other about the places 
where you can get lace and old silver and things cheap, and 
furniture. Mrs. Salvolatile’s fat voice got quite excited as 
she explained an extraordinary bargain she had made of some 
old china with a poor woman in a village. Yet she seems 
very charitable, too, and she is working a scheme by which 
the shop girls can get half an hour in the country in the 
middle of the day. 

“ Suddenly while they were talking Miss Rupert jumped 
up and went into the next room to look at some plants. 
Then she looked back and beckoned to me. 

“ ‘They are so dull/ she said, yawning behind a splendid 
feather fan, ‘ come along and talk to me.’ ” 

So far Hilda had let her pen run on easily enough. Now 
she paused and looked at the paper in front of her. “ I 
don’t quite know,” she said to herself. What she did not 
quite know was whether she really felt disposed to give an 
account to her mother of the talk which followed. It was 
new to her to have had a talk which did not bear writing 
down. She flushed a little and fidgeted on her chair. She 
did not feel sure now that she had quite understood the 
drift of Cecilia’s chatter the night before. Certainly when 
it began her remarks seemed to have no method in their 
madness. Hilda went over that talk now, sentence by 
sentence, and she became more and more uncomfortable as 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


182 

she did so. She thought that Cecilia had looked very 
handsome, and that her movements were graceful, though 
abrupt. She had first settled a great cushion behind her as 
she sat down on the sofa. The regularity of her features 
was almost classical, and her dress, though, in Hilda’s eyes, 
rather queer, was gorgeous. She wore, even in the evening, 
short skirts which showed her lovely feet and ankles. 

“ Aren’t my stockings pretty ? ” she said suddenly. “ Lord 
Tim got them for me in Paris, but they won’t interest you, 
will they ? ” and she looked at Hilda rather blankly. “ So 
you’ve come to stay with Madge,” she went on abruptly. 
Then she murmured to herself, “ Certainly they are pretty 
stockings ”. 

“ Yes,” Hilda said, “ there is scarlet fever at home.” 

“ Why, who has got it ? there is only your mother, isn’t 
there ? ” 

“ Yes, but it is the housemaid.” 

“ Oh, and do you like the housemaid ? ” 

“ I hardly know,” Hilda said, laughing. 

“ Silly question, wasn’t it ? Might as well ask if you like 
the dustpan. I’ll try again. You like your mother, I know, 
so I won’t ask that — well, do you like Madge ? ” 

“ Oh, ^es, so very much. Isn’t she charming ? ” 

“ Oh, quite too divinely nice ; only too good, you know, 
too particular. Don’t you think so ? ” 

Hilda tried not to look surprised, but she failed. Cecilia 
looked at her curiously. 

“ It is a pity to be scrupulous,” she went on, “ but perhaps 
you are worse still. Alps beyond Alps of piety and all that. 
But all you people on the summits of virtue, all your family 
adore Madge, don’t they ? Cousin Marmaduke, for instance, 
doesn’t he ? ” 

Hilda blushed crimson and was furious with herself for 
blushing ; but Cecilia’s voice seemed to her so odd. 

“ Oh, not now,” she said nervously. 


A DINNER-PARTY. 1 83 

“ Not now ? ” repeated Cecilia, “why, have they quarrel- 
led ? ” 

“ Oh no, only that was so long ago, before she married.” 

“ Of course,” said Cecilia very gravely, “ and Cousin 
Marmaduke is a very good boy,” she went on,“ isn’t he ? ” 
and she kept looking at Hilda in a furtive sidelong way that 
concealed the twinkle of humour in her eyes. 

“ Oh, yes, and he is so good-natured and helpful to every- 
body.” 

“ So helpful to Madge too,” observed Cecilia. 

“ Yes,” Hilda said ; “he stays in London on purpose.” 

No sooner was this spoken than she felt conscious it was 
not a wise thing to say. 

“ Perhaps he has come up for somebody else,” said 
Cecilia ; “ he wasn’t so very sorry to see you, was he ? ” 

“ Oh no,” she answered hotly, “ it isn’t for me ! ” 

“ Only for Madge,” said Cecilia in an absent voice. She 
was arranging the lace in the front of her gown as she 
spoke, and not looking at her companion. 

“ Oh, no,” Hilda cried in a voice full of trouble; “why do 
you say it like that? it is not in that sort of way, you know.” 

“ Of course not in that sort of way — my dear child, don’t 
look so scared,” Cecilia went into a fit of laughter. “ Of 
course it isn’t that sort of way ! Oh dear ! ” and she sighed. 
“There is ‘no mirth in idiot laughter only,’ and I have 
heard you laugh to-night. I’d give anything to laugh like 
you. Madge used to laugh like that, and I’d laugh now if I 
were she ; but for me to laugh — well it leaves a bad taste in 
my mouth. Ah,” she said suddenly, “ the joy of living, do 
you know what it means ? It means ” — and she sprang 
up and stood in front of the astonished Hilda — “ it means 
bathing for five minutes and awful cramp afterwards. It 
means a delicious ice and sour cream in your coffee. It is 
just nearing its best when it always fails. Last summer I 
paddled in the sea, in the sunset under the downs. My feet 


1 84 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


looked white in the red water, but the best waves, those that 
were biggest, that had most of the sunset in them, that 
came and kissed my ankles and seemed to swathe me in 
light, took the sand away from under my feet. Do you 
know the feeling ? All joy and glory for the moment ; and 
then slipping, sliding away — that’s life. You don’t know yet, 
you are too young and too good. You’ve never hugged your 
own limbs with joy because they are beautiful and alive, and 
thought at the same moment how foul they will, must, 
become some day.” 

Cecilia was looking at Hilda, staring at her with eyes that 
seemed frightened. 

“ Do you ever think of diseases,” she said, “ and lungs 
that are gone and limbs that must be cut off? Do you ever 
think of those things in the night ? ” her voice sank to a 
whisper, “ they are real, quite real, you know. They are all 
round about us. We have all got something big, bad and 
dreadful to suffer ; and they canH shoot you, you know, think 
of that. They shoot even the dogs to put them out of their 
pain. Ah ! that is the last and worst, that is the hideous, 
hideous thing — the animal in us won’t let us kill ourselves, 
and religious people hang — yes, they hang the men who 
would save us. Have you ever felt pain ? ” she went on ; 
“ I suppose not. But I oughtn’t to talk to you like this, it 
is selfish.” 

She stopped. She had been speaking in a hurried low 
voice, and she appeared haggard to the child before her. 
“ But then you see on your Alps they give you anodynes, 
don’t they ? ” and her eyes became sarcastic. “ Mark and 
I have written splendid sermons on the vanity of all things. 
Mine was headed ‘ Life, a Hospital for Incurables,’ and 
Mark’s, ‘ The World, the Condemned Prisoner’s Cell ’ ”. 

She laughed. “ You can’t think how striking they were. 
They beat Massillon hollow because there were no ano- 
dynes. Real unvarnished facts, nothing else. No attempt 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


185 


to cocker you up with ideas of heaven and a future life, and 
— but I won’t name the great anodyne because I don’t want 
to shock you, I’ve startled you enough already. But you 
rather like it, your big eyes are stretched quite wide and 
shiny. I can tell you lots of things about yourself; but 
first tell me before I forget, why didn’t Lord Bellasis come 
to-night ? ” 

Madge had told Hilda not to say to Cecilia that Lord 
Bellasis had refused to dine. 

“ Why should he come ? ” she said lamely. 

“Why? Because he was asked. You really are too 
clever to say anything so stupid. You see I wasn’t asked 
till he refused, that’s flat. But I thought you might know 
what excuse he gave.” 

She paused, but Hilda didn’t speak. 

“Now, for yourself,” she said, “you amuse me and you 
touch me too. Words fail to express how little you under- 
stand yourself or anybody else. And yet you are very clever. 
Mark sees that. But your education has been too intellec- 
tual by far. If you just packed up and went home now, you 
might be saved some suffering and trouble ; but you won’t. 
You are of the kind that gets into wrong places, and has to 
learn things for itself. And after all anything is better than 
stagnating. Then for you there are the anodynes to fall 
back upon. Only, you know, remember my text, when the 
waves go back they will take away the sand you stand on, 
and you will have nothing except the anodynes. There are 
some mixed metaphors for you. Come here, Mark, how 
long you have been. I’ve had to preach to pass the time, 
our favourite discourse of course, Vanitas V anitatum. I 
always feel it strongly after a good dinner. Besides my 
aunt was worse to-night, suffering horridly. Let us play 
baccarat. Where’s Madge ? ” And then lowering her voice 
she went on : “ Madge is not in very good spirits, is she ? ” 

So ended the conversation which Hilda found impossible 


i86 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


to retail for the maternal benefit. She said in her letter that 
she had had some odd talk with Cecilia which was too long 
to be repeated, but that she would now tell her mother all 
about the event of the evening. This she thought would 
be an easy subject, and she began glibly to describe how, 
while the rest of the party were playing baccarat, with the 
exception of Mrs. Salvolatile who had fallen asleep, and she 
and Marmaduke were talking, there had come a sudden 
interruption of an exciting kind. 

“ Lord Tim talked to me a little while, and I thought he 
was very funny in his account of the old man from whom he 
got his cigars in Constantinople. Soon after that came the 
baccarat tables, and there was some discussion as to how 
they should play. Madge said at once that I didn’t know 
how to play. Lord Tim offered to teach me, but Madge said 
I was not to play, which was a comfort to me. 

“ Mr. Salvolatile, Lord Tim, Madge and Cecilia and Mr. 
Fieldes played, and Mrs. Salvolatile went to sleep. Marma- 
duke came and sat by me. Then came the event of the 
evening.” 

But here again Hilda paused in her letter. She leaned 
back in her chair, thought over what she called the event of 
the evening, and then slowly put her pen through the last 
line. She passed that little incident in mental review. 
“ How did it happen ? ” she thought, “ and how stupid of 
Madge to have the pampas grass so near the lights. But I 
suppose it wouldn’t have happened if the Jew woman hadn’t 
gone to sleep, and bent over near the piano ; and that pulled 
the piano draperies which upset the pampas grass on to the 
candles on the cabinet. What an escape Madge had ! her gown 
was blazing and how white her face was — if it hadn’t been 
for Marmaduke — and he was the farthest off after all. . . 

She sat looking at the spot. How Marmaduke had put out 
Madge’s burning train nobody had quite understood ; and 
then all the men had pulled down the pampas grass and 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


187 


Stamped it out on the carpet, Lord Tim evidently enjoying 
himself. Marmaduke had looked round once and had said, 
“ Get away, Hilda,” very roughly, though she was a long 
way off. There was a second’s silence of relief. It had been 
“ a biggish flare up ” as Lord Tim said, breaking the silence. 
Marmaduke was looking at Madge anxiously. She was 
looking at her frock, Hilda was looking at his hands, when 
they were all startled by a noise at the door. It opened and 
disclosed a small patent fire-pump, with the red perspiring 
face of Mark Fieldes behind it. They all laughed almost 
hysterically. 

“ Is it out ? ” said Fieldes in a crushed voice. 

“ How on earth did you get it upstairs ? ” cried Madge. 
“ That thing is such a weight.” 

“ Oh, no, it was quite easy,” said Fieldes rather grandly; 
but an idea suddenly occurred to him. The pump had been 
comparatively light because it was empty ! 

Hilda flushed with annoyance as she recalled the scene 
although she had laughed at the time. If only she could 
be sure that Mark Fieldes had not run away while the 
pampas grass was burning. Perhaps really he had done the 
wisest thing in going for the fire-pump, but why hadn’t he 
found out that there was no water in it ? How everybody 
had laughed. What funny things Lord Tim had said. But 
Marmaduke had been very quiet and Hilda had caught him 
looking at her curiously. Was he trying to see whether she 
minded the rather rough ridicule that was being administered 
to Fieldes. No, the story was not worth telling her mother 
at any length, and so the event of the evening was thus 
described : — 

“ The pampas grass somehow got knocked over on to the 
candles, and there was such a blaze. Nobody was much 
hurt and the men stamped it out, which looked horribly 
dangerous but was all right.” 

Hilda had added “ much ” after writing “ hurt ” ; and now 


i88 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


she looked at it again. It wouldn’t do, “ nobody much 
hurt ” showed that somebody had been hurt ; but she did 
not want to write an account of Marmaduke’s hurting his 
hands. It had been while she and Madge were drinking 
seltzer water on the landing just after the visitors had left, 
and looking at Madge’s gown which was badly burnt, that 
Lord Tim had suddenly reappeared. He had come to ask 
Madge which was her nearest chemist. 

“ I want to take Marmaduke there at once,” he said, “ his 
hands are rather badly burnt, at least the right one is, — 
enough to make him swear a bit when we got out, and I 
know exactly the thing to stop the pain.” 

Madge had made some fuss about this when they were 
alone again. 

Hilda thought that Madge was rather pleased that Marma- 
duke had got his hands burnt in her service. “ The moth 
got singed this time,” and Hilda, tossed her little head, 
and went to her room angry with everybody. She was 
angry now, while she was writing to her mother. She was not 
going to make a story about Marmaduke, — that was just what 
her mother would like : and she was not disposed to make a 
fool of Mark Fieldes. She put down her pen and looked at 
her hands. “ It must hurt to burn one’s hands,” she reflected 
for about the tenth time that day. Then she took her pen 
again and hurriedly finished the letter, just alluding to 
Marmaduke scorching his hands. 

After all this care, however, she looked through her letter 
again, and came to the conclusion that it was hardly one 
that she would care to send home. She re-read the passages 
concerning the dinner-party. And this time she tore it into 
little bits, and threw it into the scrap-basket. 

Then she felt cross at having done so. 

She took up an essay by Mark Fieldes which she knew well 
already, and this proved soothing. The noble clearness of 
style, the insight into character, the wisdom of the heart that 


A DINNER-PARTY. 


189 

breathed through her favourite passages seemed to give her 
spiritual strength. She turned over the pages, ensconcing 
herself more deeply in her cushions, and taking comfort as 
she read. The page was headed “ The Ethics of Sacrifice 
“ Marmaduke couldn’t understand it,” thought Hilda with 
a sigh of satisfaction. There was no tone of assertion of 
the writer’s superiority in it; yet in certain passages he 
seemed almost oppressed by his own power of vision. To 
Hilda, although she possessed no very striking talent her- 
self, intellect had an extraordinary attraction. Her mother 
had brought the girl up to enthusiasm for intellect, and 
there was much of her grandfather’s character in her. Old 
^ men, old priests, who were dull fogies to Mary herself, if 
they were even mildly intelligent, had never bored Hilda. 
Even Brown, her mother’s maid, who had, unfortunately for 
all concerned, a natural love of intellectual rather than 
practical matters, and who could quote Newman, but who 
could not remember that the braids at the bottom of skirts 
are in constant need of renewal, was a favourite of Hilda’s. 
Her mother had encouraged her to criticise stupid people. 
Mr. Fieldes was the first man of really superior intellect 
she had met, and a glow of sympathetic interest came 
to her with his lightest words. In a certain degree they 
were akin, and they met among people of a different 
kind. He conveyed to her at times a strong sense of 
his intuitive insight, of thought instinct with wisdom, 
yet fully conscious of its own limitations. There was 
nothing pompous or pretentious about his mind. While 
talking with him, Hilda felt that there was a great universe 
about them, that there was a “before and after,” and that 
for him the story of mankind was a connected, although 
mysterious whole. But again, in some ways his qualities 
made her recognise his defects more clearly. She wanted 
him to be great, and instinctively she knew that he was not 
great. Her first impulse was to be hard on Mark Fieldes ; but 


190 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


her second was to interpret him as favourably as possible. He 
might have been something very dear to her, so anxious was 
she concerning him. When the absence of manliness, or the 
presence of pettiness in him, oppressed her, she was repelled ; 
but she tried to explain either or both away. But why ^Qt 
leave him alone? She could hardly have told why not, 
except that it would have been the loss of a great interest, 
of a first companionship with something which singularly 
stimulated her intellect. 

No doubt it was partly her power over him that she did 
not wish to lose ; his flattery that gave her that estimate 
of herself which she so much desired. Also, strange as 
it may seem, though she had no worldly ideas respecting 
Marmaduke’s wealth and position, and was angered by 
the notion that everybody must think she cared for these 
things, she had worldly ideas about Mark Fieldes. He 
represented to her the realm of intellect, of social excite- 
ment of a refined kind, of the life she most wished to lead. 
What more dull than life at another Skipton ? what more 
amusing than a small house in London, with hardly any 
money perhaps, but with the best society ? And he was 
good-hearted, thoroughly good-hearted, and capable of tender 
sympathies ; although these were provokingly indiscriminate. 

And here at least she was right. He was full of sym- 
pathy for Mary’s spiritual struggles, for the tailor whose 
bill he didn’t pay, and who he thought was treated dis- 
gracefully by really rich men ; for his invalid sister, to whom 
he wrote almost daily, for Hilda’s vanity, for Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux’s ambition — but naturally he sympathised most 
of all with Mr. Mark Fieldes. 

If Hilda could have known what manner of supper party 
he had hurried off to the night before, the essay on the 
■“ Ethics of Sacrifice ” might not have proved so soothing. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AMATEUR DIPLOMACY. 

% 

The room in which Cecilia was giving Mark Fieldes his tea 
on Saturday — the day after Madge’s dinner-party — was a tiny 
excrescence jutting out at the back of a house in Charles 
Street, Berkeley Square. The room had been arranged as a 
sitting-room for Cecilia ; and her friends were often taken to 
it, so as to avoid her aunt, the elder Miss Rupert, in the 
drawing-room. 

“What have you done to this room since I was here 
last ? ” inquired Mark, who was stretched at full length on a 
kind of divan opposite the fireplace. 

Cecilia was sitting in a swing, which was fastened to the 
ceiling — a special device of her own. She had put down her 
coffee cup on a stool, and let herself sway backwards and 
forwards, the soft material of her white tea-gown making a 
perceptible noise as it swept the matting on the floor. The 
room was so small, that the fumes of the cigarettes made a 
faintly clouded atmosphere, slightly laden with opium. 

“ Oh, I have brought more of my things here, and my 
writing-table,” answered Cecilia, as she pointed with her 
cigarette to a huge old marqueterie escritoire, which blocked 
up the window and pushed itself against the fireplace. “ I 
am more out of the way here, and I can’t see the doctors go 
up and down. I used to see them, and then I had to ask 
them things ; and it was all horrible. Besides, the nurses 
used to come in fidgeting me about nothing.” 

Cecilia’s voice was angry, and she kicked the ground with 

(191) 


192 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the heel of her shoe and sent herself so far forward that she 
knocked over a frame which stood on a low table beside 
Mark’s couch. Mark rose and picked it up. It was a large 
photograph of Madge. “To dearest Cecilia from Madge,” 
was scrawled half across it. He put it back carefully. 
Cecilia looked at it with a smile. 

“ The comfort is that it is not in the least like her,” she 
said. 

“ No, it is not quite like her,” said Mark. “ The items, 
nose, eyes and chin, etc., seem correct enough; but it has 
missed the special effect. Mrs. Riversdale’s charm has some- 
thing French in it; one can’t imagine her ever being 
anything but perfectly dressed. She is more Hegante than 
artistic.” 

“That was a curious little scene last night when the 
pampas grass was burning,” said Cecilia. 

Fieldes flushed and fidgeted a little. “ Lemarchant was 
zealous,” he said in a voice full of meaning. 

“Yes,” answered Cecilia, “ and I was amused, because I 
had just made the girl Hilda say the funniest things. She 
is delicious. I had asked her if the handsome cousin were 
not devoted to Madge, and she turned red and said, ‘ Oh, 
not like that,’ in quite a shocked little voice.” 

“ But why not now when she is a widow ? ” asked Mark. 

“ I suppose because the husband has only been dead two 
years ; ” said Cecilia with a laugh, “ or because Miss Hilda 
somehow does not like the idea.” 

Mark kept silence. Cecilia lighted another cigarette at the 
little silver lamp on a Cairo stool beside her. 

“ He will have a large property, won’t he ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Mark in a dull voice. 

Cecilia settled herself back in her swing and looked up at 
the ceiling. 

“ What a wonderfully good-looking man he is ! ” 

“ Do you think so ? ” asked Mark quickly. 


AMATEUR DIPLOMACY. 


193 


“ Yes.” A pause, and then : “ Is there any reason why he 
shouldn’t marry Madg^e ? ” Her colour rose as she spoke, 
and excitement was betrayed in her voice. An idea occurred 
to Mark. 

“How stupid I have been,” he thought; then he said 
aloud : “ Not so far as I know. He was in love with her 
before she married his cousin.” 

“ Well, then, why shouldn’t they take it up again now ? 
There is no deceased cousin’s widow bill,” interjected 
Cecilia. 

“ None. But I don’t think Mrs. George Riversdale 
would quite see it. She tried marriage with the eldest son 
of one great Catholic family. I don’t think she will want to 
be daughter-in-law to another Skipton. Besides,” Mark 
turned and looked straight at his hostess, “ besides, I think 
she will look higher, don’t you ? ” 

Cecilia’s flush deepened. She was no diplomatist. She 
turned from him, and with shaking hand knocked the ash 
off her cigarette. “ Though I can’t help liking him, he is a 
cad,” she muttered to herself. 

“ There are so few marriages for Roman Catholics,” she 
observed. “ But, joking apart, I don’t think this youth now 
wants to marry Madge. I think it is Hilda he is after, don’t 
you ? ” 

Cecilia in her turn looked straight at her companion. 
Mark hauled down his colours. 

“ You have guessed my secret,” he said, with a sigh. 

“ I’m not surprised,” said Cecilia, becoming in a moment 
the cordial confidante. “ She is awfully pretty and a very 
good sort. I have taken a great fancy to her and I mean to 
see something of her.” 

“ I am very hopeless,” said the confessed lover. 

“ That’s the correct thing, but I don’t see why you should 
be. Hilda has got the wits to appreciate you, I can see, 
already. Only ” 


3 


194 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Only ? ” echoed Mark. 

“ Only that her family are sure to want her to marry the 
handsome Roman Catholic Marmaduke, and he likes her, 
and I’m not sure she doesn’t like him. Really, for your 
sake, that is not a bad idea of mine that he should marry 
Madge.” 

“An admirable idea,” responded Mark. 

“ And frankly, Mark, though I am ready to be your friend, 

I won’t pretend to sublime unselfishness. Madge is a bore, 
you know, and (in confidence) you can see that she isn’t 
quite a lady. I made a mistake I own in taking her up. 
Several of us took her up, and she has got out of her 
natural sphere. They all see it now. We should be glad 
to have her out of the way in the wilds of Lancashire. You 
can’t think what a bore she became at Bellasis in the 
autumn. She was so absurdly eager to do everything that I 
and a few friends of mine did. You can’t think how funny 
she was and how pretentious. And there was something so 
nouveau riche in her absurd extravagance. She had a 
different gown every quarter of an hour.” 

“ I can see her,” said Mark, with a derisive laugh ; he 
tenjoyed all this confidence hugely. 

“Well, you know, Bellasis became dreadfully bored by 
her, and he would be delighted if she married this man and 
went off* to Lancashire.” 

“ All so true,” sighed Mark, “ but how can we make them 
do it ? ” 

Cecilia sent forth a peal of laughter. 

“ I haven’t the least notion,” she admitted. 

“ Throw them together ? ” suggested Mark. 

“ Keep Hilda out of the way ? ” said Cecilia. 

“ Throw Miss Hilda into somebody else’s society,” said 
Mark, with a shy smile. 

“ Quite so. Then the handsome cousin may easily be 
persuaded that he ought to look after Madge — save her from 


AMATEUR DIPLOMACY. 


195 


worldliness and all that. That is a certain card to play with 
these Catholics. I am not sure but that he has the idea 
already. Then if Hilda is out of the way, propinquity and 
‘ interest in Madge’s soul ’ may do much. Gossip is useful, 
too ; and we can both talk — can’t we Mark ? little things 
about his always being with her, about his burning his 
hands — make out that she always cared for him, that may 
do something if it gets round to him. Men are all open to 
that. Let plenty of people know that there has been some- 
thing between them long ago. Get a thing on the tapis 
somehow, and it often grows of itself. It really would 
amuse me, Mark, very much if we succeeded.” 

“ She means to let it come round to Bellasis,” thought 
Mark. 

“ I might,” he said, “ see what impression Lord Tim got 
of the pampas-grass affair. By the way, is Tim a friend of 
Lord Bellasis ? ” 

“ Yes, I met him at Bellasis. But will you have some 
more tea ? By the way, Hilda is to come to lunch with me 
to-morrow. Mark, I’ll be your friend without any nonsense.” 

“ And I your devoted cavalier,” said Mark, laughing. 

Silence followed for a few moments. Mark was the first 
to speak. 

“ How is Miss Rupert ? ” he asked. “ You want two 
nurses for her now ? ” 

“Heavens, yes,” said Cecilia, “two nurses and they are 
overtired it seems ; don’t let us talk about it. I can’t bear 
it. I would give anything to leave London now.” 

“And you can’t leave your aunt ? ” said Fieldes sympa- 
thetically. 

“ It is just because of her that I wish I could go,” said 
Cecilia ; and she shivered. “ I am no good to her, in fact I 
am bad for her. She never has me off her mind. Oh, it is 
too, too horrible.” 

Cecilia stopped the swing by putting her feet to the ground 


196 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and bent forward with distended and frightened eyes that 
seemed to see something dreadful ; her arms came out of 
her loose sleeves and showed white against the red ropes 
she was holding. 

“Think,” she cried, “it is pain, always pain, terrible 
pain, and she lies there moaning. I could hear her some- 
times in the drawing-room ; and yet she may take months 
to die. Nobody thinks of putting her out of her pain. 
They do everything they can to keep her alive. Of course 
they give her morphia and those things, but you know it 
does nothing, nothing really; and one day — conceive how 
awful ! — she wouldn’t take the morphia because she was 
afraid she should die unconscious. She said she would 
rather suffer. Conceive what her clergymen and her people 
must have reduced her to before that ! They come and see 
her, a horrid old white man with a beard, and a young horrid 
black shaven one, and they rejoice over her because she 
prays so much and gives them money. I believe they dread 
her dying. And all the time she is talking to them she is 
being tortured, and she tells them that she thanks the God 
who tortures her, and that she is glad to suffer because of her 
sins ; she who has been only too horridly good all her life ! 
Fancy, Mark, fancy if one were to be tortured for what one 
had done after a life like hers — where should you and I be, I 
wonder ? ” 

Cecilia laughed, a ghastly little laugh. 

“ But why has she got you on her mind ? ” asked Fieldes. 

“ Because unfortunately she is. I’m afraid, fonder of me 
than of any other living thing. She has got one of those 
unfortunate natures that have a craze for giving up to other 
people, and she gave up to me all my life, and now she thinks 
I am going to the bad, and she has plots to do me good. Isn’t 
it awful ? They come to me sometimes, day or night, and 
say they think she is ‘ going,’ they mean dying ; and I have 
to come whenever they catch me. And then she rambles on 


AMATEUR DIPLOMACY. 


197 


about all sorts of things, and I see her face contract with 
pain. One night, late, late at night — but I don’t know why 

I tell you all this, Mark ” 

“ No, go on,” said Mark gently, “ one night — what ? ” 

“ One night I had had such a glorious evening. I had 
been at Laura’s and I had danced while she played. And 
somehow we both seemed to get a little wild, and there was 
a wonderful rhythm of joy and life in the music, and in my 
dancing, and I felt as if I were very beautiful and a sort of 
mistress over life and death ; as if all things about me were 
happy and warm and living. I don’t know what possessed 
us. Bellasis,” her voice softened, “ was the only audience. 
I came home and went up to bed, and I was so excited that 
I almost forgot all the horrors, and just ran up past her 
door as I had always done when she was well. And I took 
my things off and rolled myself warmly up in bed, and I lay 
there almost as happy and peaceful as I used to be years 
ago. And just then they knocked, and in came one of them. 
And she said in her horrid voice that my aunt had been 
asking for me for a long time — all the evening. I asked was 
she light-headed this evening ? and the woman said no ; 
that she had refused to take morphia, although it was a bad 
night, till she had seen me, because she wanted to speak to 
me. It was awful, and it came crushing down on me just 
when I had had a few minutes’ happiness. It was a horribly 
cold night too, and so I said I wouldn’t go, and I argued 
with the woman that my aunt ought to take morphia at once, 
until she went away. And do you know, Mark, I believe 
that woman hates me. They all hate me now, and they 
used to like me. But how can they expect me to stay with 
her and watch all the tortures ; for, Mark, you know it is the 
family illness and I shall have it some day.” The last 
words rose in a sort of wail of self-defence and self-pity. 

Fieldes looked at her, half fascinated, as he might have 
looked at some beautiful, dangerous animal ; and yet there 


198 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


was so much that was human in the terror, the fear, the 
impulse to confession in order at once to relieve herself and 
to see how it appeared to him. 

“ They are not fair to me,” she said bitterly. “ I don’t 
know what they think I am ; but imagine what they did 
to-day ! The servants made a mistake and brought me her 
luncheon. I didn't know and I didn’t care what we were 
going to eat. The cook settles my aunt’s dinner with the 
nurse and I only say let them spend whatever they like — a 
little more or less won’t make much difference — and don’t 
worry my aunt. Well, to-day I saw there were oysters, and 
I didn’t think anything of it ; but I found afterwards they 
were all that were left of a barrel that had been sent for 
my aunt, and that she had taken a fancy to them. Do you 
know I believe the nurse knew it and wouldn’t come and tell 
me. I believe she wanted to make out that I had eaten the 
poor creature’s oysters on purpose. Isn’t it disgusting ? ” 

Fieldes was silent ; but after a little he said abruptly : — 

“ Do you know, Cecilia, I think you are becoming hysteri- 
cal. You will have some sort of nerve collapse at this rate. 
You must go away and get calmer. Go abroad, — oh, go 
anywhere ! ” he urged. 

“ Go away ! ” said Cecilia, and a strange light came into 
her eyes. “ How little he knows,” she thought, “ the strength 
of what keeps me in London. No,” she said, “ I shall stay 
here, and avoid the horrors as much as I can, and talk to 
Hilda and look after her.” 

Mark after that left her. He passed through the mews of 
Farm Street to get to South Street. Outside the Jesuit 
Church he stopped. There were faint distant lights twink- 
ling before the altar. 

“ Oh,” he cried almost aloud, “ cannot any Church keep 
its power ? Must all fail ? Must we have many Cecilias ? 
Oh, whatever we lose, whatever we say or do, let us keep the 
power of the crucifix to save the women ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 


HILDA’S LETTER TO HER MOTHER. 

“ Monday. 

“ Dearest Mother, — 

“ I am glad you understand how difficult it is to 
find time to write in my present excitements. Tve not been 
out much in the evening so far, but I am to go to a party at 
the Hurstmonceaux’, and Mr. Fieldes is using his influence 
in the House of Commons to get me into the Ladies’ 
Gallery. He won’t be satisfied with anything but a really 
good night, as he has told one of his friends in the Govern- 
ment. We have had tea in his rooms to-day. It was great 
fun. 

“ The rooms are just what I thought a bachelor would have, 
but Madge was disappointed and told him that he ought 
to make them more artistic. She certainly made herself 
at home, running about the room looking at things, asking 
him questions, and even opening drawers and pulling out 
photographs. ‘ And what is this ? ’ she asked, taking a 
framed photograph down from a shelf. ‘ Ah, that is rather 
interesting,’ said Mr. Fieldes, who was fussing himself and 
his servant with the tea-things. ‘ What is it about ? ’ 
‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ it is quite a long story told in pictures in 
an old palazzo in Siena. It is a sort of Faust, only 
it is a woman who has concluded the bargain with the 
devil. First you see her, old and shrivelled, with an 
angry discontented face, coming out of a church hobbling 
on her stick, and scowling at a grand young woman in a 

(199) 


200 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


chariot. Won’t you have some tea ? I think it is just 
right now.’ 

But Madge wouldn’t come to tea. ‘Finish the story 
first,’ she said. ‘ Well, then,’ he went on, while he poured 
out a cup for me, ‘ the next picture is the same old woman 
in a wood followed by Mephistopheles, who is dressed as 
a cavalier. He is walking behind her whispering, while an 
exquisitely painted angel, whose white draperies shade off 
into the blue, is floating over her, pointing to heaven. It 
is a glorious sky, and the clouds melt away until they seem 
to suggest that within the wonderful circles of light must 
be the very throne of God. On a quaint little hillock hard 
by, a rugged crucifix stands out against the red light on 
the horizon.’ ‘ But this picture?’ said Madge, who had kept 
staring at it in an odd way she has sometimes. ‘ If you 
would but have your tea,’ said Mr. Fieldes quite piteously, 
‘it is getting cold.’ Madge said, ‘ How you do tease,’ half- 
laughingly, and poured out some tea herself. Mr. Fieldes 
went on : ‘ Then in this picture you see she has yielded. She 
is a beautiful young woman, gorgeously dressed, and with 
people bowing before her. The curious point is that in all 
the descriptions of the pictures the lady is supposed to have 
sold her soul for gold, and jewels and power, not for love. 
The knight is an incident or necessary appendage, whereas 
in Faust the man sells himself for youth chiefly for the sake 
of love. Do you think it is natural. Miss Riversdale ? ’ ‘I 
should have thought it would have been just the other way,’ 
I answered. ‘ Faust being a man might sell himself for 
power. The woman would do it for love.’ 

‘ I don’t agree with you,’ he said; ‘ my experience is that 
ambition is the one overpowering passion in a woman. Don’t 
you think so, Mrs. Riversdale ? As often as not when a woman 
falls, it is from hope of advancement? ’ Madge didn’t answer. 

‘ But what happens to the woman in the picture ? ’ I asked. 

‘ Well, that is the best part of it, only I couldn’t get the 


HILDA’S LETTER TO HER MOTHER. 


201 


photographs. First a monk is preaching to her and her 
attendants, and she laughs at him. Then she is kneeling 
by a dead baby, and then, in the next scene, she is in a con- 
vent cell, but the devil is seen laughing behind the door 
(evidently he daren’t come in), and holding out a paper 
which I suppose is her bond. He had promised her fifty 
years of life, and it ends in her giving up the long life she 
has purchased from him, and consenting to die before the 
time, and the devil rages over her dead body, while she flies 
up with an excited angel through the ceiling of the cell. The 
last two are the least good of all the series — in design and 
execution.’ 

Madge had moved to the fire. ‘ Usually the devil won 
his bargain in those stories, didn’t he?’ she said. ‘Not 
always. In the middle ages the devil was often made a fool 
of. Then Shakespeare ignored him ; but he went up in 
the world with Milton, and had his own way with Goethe, 
and he was a striking individual with Byron. He is quite 
out of fashion now.’ ‘ People sell their souls to the world 
now,’ I said, and I suppose I must have been pompous, 
for Madge cried : ‘ Spare us any of your preaching, my dear 
Hilda.’ ‘ Personally I think he is a loss,’ said Mr. Fieldes, 
‘ he was a great convenience. I knew a child who on 
being asked why she did wrong, said, “ I could not help it, the 
devil tempted me”. We were all like that child until they 
took away our devil.’ ‘ But then mother knew a modern 
child,’ I said, ‘ who when she was asked why she was 
so naughty said, “I can’t help it, it’s a law of nature”.’ 
We laughed, and Mark said, ‘ But the laws of nature can’t 
*do half the business. Is it a law of nature for a pretty girl 
to marry an old man for money ? No, the devil waving a 
box of diamonds was a much more artistic way out.’ 

Madge walked about the room again looking at his pic- 
tures and other things, and then came back to us suddenly 
and said, ‘We must go. I thought you took photographs. 


202 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


but you’ve no camera or anything about the room.’ ‘ I 
only take snapshots,’ he answered, looking rather awkward 
I thought. ‘ And I never keep any : they are not worth it.’ 
‘ Why, what’s that thing I saw in a drawer ? ’ said Madge. 
‘ Oh, that was done by a friend, I never keep mine.’ ‘ What, 
never?' said Madge. ‘Never, dear lady,’ answered Mark, 
and he looked more angry than I’ve ever seen him before. 
After that Madge made him fetch her fur cloak, and she said 
while he put it on : ‘ Do you think that people who believe 
in hell would ever sell their souls ? ’ She spoke to nobody in 
particular. Mark came in front of her and looked hard at her. 
‘ I do believe it — don’t you ? — if they got a good offer ? ’ 

Well, Madge came away in a temper. What can they 
have meant ? I’m sure Madge wanted to find something 
in his room. I must say it improved Mr. Mark to lose his 
temper. He looked more of a man. But Madge abused him 
all the way home, though she had just pressed him to come 
to lunch whenever he liked. She said he was not a gentle- 
man, and his manners were hateful, and he shouldn’t say ‘ dear 
lady,’ he didn’t know how to do it, and that he was too familiar. 
She had quite got her colour back by the time we reached 
home. I’m afraid this letter will bore you ; the conversation 
seemed much more interesting before it was written down, 
and now I must dress for dinner. 

“ Your loving child, 

“ Hilda.” 

But Mrs. Arthur Riversdale was annoyed as well as bored 
by her daughter’s letter, the first long communication from 
Hilda since Skipton. It told her nothing about Hilda’s self, 
and gave her an unpleasant impression of her surroundings. 
Hilda said nothing of Marmaduke, but perhaps that was a 
good sign. The mother longed for more knowledge of her 
child ; and she had to put up with a would-be clever account 
of a tea with “ that tiresome Mr. Fieldes ”. Hilda’s visit to 
London was becoming an increasing source of anxiety to 


HILDA’S LETTER TO HER MOTHER. 


203 


her from her knowing so little about it. This was hardly 
the way in which her mother had intended Hilda to see life. 
And that night, long after the other inmates of the house 
were at rest, the widow sat thinking over the question 
whether she ought to summon Hilda home. 

Little did Hilda imagine how evenly the two sides hung 
in the balance that night, and how nearly she had risked 
being sent for by writing that letter. Over and over again 
the musing mother summed up the case ; on the one hand 
Madge as a chaperon, her friends as companions ; the child’s 
crude, simple acceptance of it all as simply so much fun, 
evidently taking all she saw and heard as a matter of course. 
For her those people would become the ideal of life and 
society. Surely it was wrong to leave her alone with Madge. 
This was the first conclusion. 

But the defence ? 

Where else could she be ? The housemaid with the 
scarlet fever was better, but not well enough to be removed. 
And then there was all the disinfecting to be done. She 
could not have Hilda home, and she could not ask them to 
have her at Skipton when Mr. Riversdale had been so pleased 
at this visit to London, and had more than hinted . . . But 
there was so little about Marmaduke in the letters. Still, 
was that altogether a bad sign ? Hardly. And then surely 
Marmaduke must be taking care of her. They could not 
be such very objectionable people, or he would have warned 
somebody ; he was always to be trusted. And it would be — it 
certainly would be so very happy if . . . And then she smiled 
tenderly and sighed and began thinking again, and decided 
that it was impossible to afford to take Hilda to Brighton or 
Eastbourne. After all, the disinfecting would not take more 
than a fortnight, and Hilda could not get much harm in that 
short time. On the whole, it was best to let things take 
their natural course. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A DULL WEEK. 

There is little more of importance to record concerning 
Hilda’s doings and experiences during the rest of the week. 
Monday in the week following was fixed for the Hurst- 
monceaux’ musical party. Poor Marmaduke had been laid 
up since the pampas-grass episode, with his injured hands 
and a touch of fever. Madge went about a good deal and 
did not often take Hilda with her. 

Madge was indeed much preoccupied. Many of her own 
friends were friends of Lord Bellasis, and again and again 
before lunching or dining out she had been in a fever of 
expectancy — she must meet him before long, and what 
would happen ? However they did not meet. She had 
asked him to dine, in an impetuous moment, on the pre- 
vious Friday ; and when he wrote briefly that he was engaged, 
she had been greatly relieved. And on each occasion when 
a meeting had been half expected by her, if she felt a little 
disappointed, she felt on the whole more relieved not to find 
him. Once he was actually in the house when she arrived, 
but apparently did not see her, and a few minutes later she 
found that he was gone. Neither did she happen to meet 
Laura Hurstmonceaux : and this too was a relief. She 
seemed on the whole to shrink from anything which might 
lead to further explanations, or bring matters nearer to a 
definite issue. 

Madge remained then during that week distraite and 
absent. She had little mind to give to Hilda. She was 

(204) 


A DULL WEEK. 


205 


glad to find that two of her friends seemed to occupy that 
young lady’s time during the day, in a quiet but sufficiently 
entertaining manner. And as to the evenings she had 
warned Hilda not to expect a rush of gaiety. 

The two benevolent beings who rapidly developed inde- 
pendent intimacy with the responsive Hilda were Cecilia 
Rupert and Mrs. Hurstmonceaux. Cecilia’s society was 
exciting to Hilda — full of interest, but not entirely pleasant. 
She dreaded the tete-a-tete she was always seeking, and which 
always produced the same result — a headache, or a touch of 
neuralgia, complaints entirely new to her. After one of 
those talks in which Madge or Marmaduke was sure to be 
casually introduced, and his disappointed affection of years 
past brought somehow before her mind, Hilda would go to 
her own room, blaming herself and everybody else. She 
found the writing of letters home more and more of an effort, 
and she dreaded lest her mother should detect the constraint 
which only ten days’ stay with Madge had already produced. 
Her prayers too seemed constrained in the same way as her 
letters. She had never before had so much to amuse her, 
but she had often been far happier. She was not positively 
unhappy. She would not have echoed Cecilia’s condemna- 
tion of the world as a “ husk of pleasure round a heart of 
sorrow”. But she did not feel good; she dreaded being 
disloyal ; she did not assimilate Cecilia’s suggestions without 
some healthy resistance. She listened, and thought herself 
wrong to listen, to constant insinuations against Madge. 
She preferred perhaps to impute to her conscience some 
sadness of heart which she would not acknowledge. 

The kindness shown her by Mrs. Hurstmonceaux on the 
other hand was nothing but delightful. Several days during 
that week were spent by Hilda almost entirely with Laura. 
Mark Fieldes sometimes made a third, in some visits to 
picture galleries or theatres: and when he was not there, 
Laura talked of him. 


206 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Mrs. Hurstmonceaux had indeed resolved to marry Mark 
to this supposed heiress. It was not remarkable that she 
should have taken Mark’s account of the girl’s wealth without 
inquiry. Her zeal in his matrimonial interests needs more ex- 
planation. Everybody has his or her weakness, and Fieldes 
was a weakness with Mrs. Hurstmonceaux. She had dis- 
covered him at a country house, where the young school 
inspector had been invited to stay, in order that he might 
speak at a large political meeting. He had confided to 
her a work in manuscript which she had warmly pressed 
him to publish, and she had been justified by its great 
success with the public. She had naturally exaggerated her 
own share in the success of the Phantasmagoria of Phidias, 
and she piqued herself on helping the career of her genius. 
Fieldes also exaggerated the service she had done him ; for 
he was prone to overestimate social and feminine influences. 
He was not morally strong enough to believe that his own 
good work could make its way without the help of such 
women as Laura. It is rash to make general assertions, but 
it does not seem very risky to assert that society, although 
it may make and unmake other reputations, does not make 
or unmake authors, unless it may do the latter work indirectly 
by helping them to injure their own powers. That society 
was doing this last evil work to her protege Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux was quick to discover. 

“ You are not writing half so well as you were,” she had 
said to him. “ This sort of thing doesn’t do for you ; you get 
too anxious over it, and that doesn’t suit it.” 

By “sort of thing” and “it ” Mrs. Hurstmonceaux meant 
“ Society ” with a big S, but she was too true an artist to 
say so. “ That article in the Bi-monthly was a success just 
because it said what the Duke of A. and a dozen important 
men wanted said at the moment. But if you once take to 
that kind of thing as an object it won’t do. You will fritter 
your powers away, and people will see it too. Can’t you 


A DULL WEEK. 


207 


treat them with a little wholesome indifference ? There is 
something of the bully in all sets of people. For heaven’s 
sake don’t go in for that foolish swagger of professing 
cynically to have low objects. We have not low objects in 
reality. These are the affectations of people whose place in 
the world is ready made : yours is not.” 

So convinced had Laura Hurstmonceaux become that Lon- 
don society was not the proper element for her “ genius,” that 
she had been glad to hear that he thought of marrying and 
of marrying money. He was not so successful as a bachelor 
that he could lose much by matrimony, and a clever girl 
might be the making of him. In spending the time with 
the two she skilfully contrived for them the sort of amuse- 
ment and occupation in which Mark was to be seen at his 
best. She had with extreme candour given him some advice. 
She had told him to suppress the gossipy, small side of his 
talk. 

“ Your mind is your attraction, my dear Mark,” she would 
say, “ and you can’t be pompous ! it isn’t in you, so don’t 
be afraid of showing a little intellect. I for one always feel 
crushed at your attempts at gossip. You lose all your sense 
of humour.” 

Mark was very happy that week, happier than he had been 
for years. He really enjoyed this innocent unworldly atmos- 
phere. With Hilda and Mrs. Hurstmonceaux in her present 
mood he felt almost like a boy. There was no straining 
after a kind of talk and a state of mind unnatural to him, no 
fear of bad form, no anxiety lest he should be above or below 
his company. If some of the women whom he was always 
trying to propitiate by descending to their level, as he 
supposed, could have heard him talking with Laura and 
Hilda, making little silly spontaneous jokes as well as 
saying deeper things, they would have thought him wonder- 
fully improved. Mrs. Hurstmonceaux liked him better than 
ever, and Madge said she did the same when Laura asked 


208 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


her ; but it was difficult to know how far Madge’s mind was 
present with them at all at that time. 

Mrs. Hurstmonceaux was however distinctly bored during 
a good many of the hours she spent with the two, and she 
groaned a little when she got home. But she had a strong 
will ; she was determined to marry Hilda to Mark ; and she 
was quite accustomed to being bored by human beings when 
she wanted to do anything with them. Laura was not sorry 
that Hilda should have this week of rational enjoyment, 
with Mark for a guide, but she did not intend her protege 
to continue to live so quiet a life. She meant the little 
party at her own house, to which Madge was to bring 
Hilda, to lead to her young friend going out more. 

Laura was in a fair way to being satisfied with her little 
parties just then. The Hurstmonceaux’ received frequently, 
“ a little ” ; “ not many, but often,” was their principle, or 
rather her principle, for her constant use of the pronoun 
*‘we”was fictitious, and known to be fictitious. Mr. Hurst- 
monceaux was an excellent, good fellow, and he had quite as 
many personal friends as she had ; but the ways and doings 
of the house were ruled by her, as indeed he much preferred 
that they should be. This was from no height of unselfish- 
ness, but from a long-standing conviction that his wife 
could accomplish more for him than he could accomplish 
for himself. Coming himself of a good but old-fashioned 
stock, he marvelled at what seemed to him the wonderful 
success of his wife, who was of no family worthy of mention. 
They were not very happy together, but they were not more 
unhappy than many other couples ; and his confidence in 
her wisdom smoothed away many difficulties. He proved 
his confidence for instance by allowing her a free hand in 
their expenditure, and she took full advantage of this liberty. 
It is difficult to analyse her methods (she never analysed 
them herself) without being vulgar, and what could be more 
vulgar than what Cecilia once said of her ? The two were 


A DULL WEEK. 


209 


certainly antipathic by nature. “ Mrs. Hurstmonceaux,’" 
she had exclaimed when provoked out of all patience by 
that lady’s manoeuvres, “ Mrs. Hurstmonceaux can even 
manage women ; and she never forgets to flatter men as. 
well as she feeds them ! ” 

Yes, she fed them to perfection, and she threw a soft 
melancholy poetry into her very viands. “We have a sad- 
ness about us,” she seemed to say (it must be remembered 
that she never did say anything of the kind). “ We want 
cheering. We can never forget the mystery of the starving: 
multitudes of our great cities. We have a soft melancholy 
about us. Nothing must be spared in giving us such 
delicate viands as will best soothe us ; no salon now could be 
attempted with tea and bread and butter in an attic ; we have 
less faith than our forefathers. It is a serious loss for our 
emotions ; but so it is. We must cultivate the highest in 
art — in every art. The dinner-table should be perfect in its 
way. Mediocrity is now intolerable. And the company 
must be chosen with infinite care. We live in a democratic 
age, therefore never was rank so much sought after. We 
must have it in sufficiency : yet it must not overwhelm 
talent. Above all, let us not be pretentious. Whoever comes 
to us, however great or small his rank or talent, must be a 
real friend.” 


14 


CHAPTER VII. 


CECILIA APPEALS TO MARMADUKE. 

That a man should suffer some physical pain for the sake 
of the woman with whom he is in love, is not a case to excite 
much commiseration. But a man may be allowed to grumble 
who has been obliged to hurt himself a good deal for a woman 
he does not love, in the presence of another whom he does 
love. 

Marmaduke certainly did grumble when he found that his 
burns were very considerable, and that the doctor insisted on 
his staying in his room for several days. On the second day 
after these orders a tpuch of the Indian fever, that was always 
lying in wait for him since a bad illness in India, developed 
sufficiently to prevent his being able to leave the house. His 
friends, when they went to see him, did not find him very 
amusing company. He had no sitting-room — for, without 
reflecting that he could now afford better ones, he had gone 
back to the lodgings of his poorer days — therefore he could 
not ask ladies to tea. There were only two ladies whom he 
would have invited if he could, namely, Madge and Hilda. 
Madge was very assiduous in calling to inquire how he was; 
but he could not find out (as he disdained to ask his servant) 
whether Hilda came with her, and the only allusion to her 
in Madge’s numerous notes was contained in the “we,” for 
which Hilda’s authority was doubtful. 

Marmaduke had plenty of time for reflection during these 
days. He was a good deal surprised at his own state of mind. 
His love for Hilda had begun in such a quiet, reasonable, 

( 210 ) 


CECILIA APPEALS TO MARMADUKE. 


2II 


willing manner, and seemed so appropriate and fitting, that 
it had not borne at first the appearance of a grande passion. 
He had been very glad, during those days at Skipton, that 
he was so much attracted by exactly the girl whom his 
parents would wish him to marry; and although he had 
been by no means confident of success — for he felt sure that 
Hilda had plenty of individuality and will of her own — still 
there was no reason to be despondent. The incipient flirta- 
tion with Mark Fieldes had been annoying, but not very 
seriously disturbing. Mark did not seem a likely man to 
win a girl’s affections against such odds as were sug- 
gested by his want of religion, his belonging in Marmaduke’s 
eyes to another class than hers, his lanky, awkward person 
and his poverty. 

Marmaduke had left Hilda at Skipton, where she had 
stayed until the following Thursday, and then as we have 
seen they had met again in London. And there to Marma- 
duke, as well as to her, all seemed changed between them. 
It was to him a strangely thrilling recollection, that of Hilda 
coming quietly into the room, on the afternoon on which she 
arrived in London, dressed in her black net frock. He had 
been leaning back in the arm-chair near the fireplace, looking 
up with amusement at Cecilia, who was evidently taking stock 
of him as a new acquaintance who excited her curiosity. 
He did not know that Hilda had arrived ; he was not sure 
on what day she was to come up from Skipton ; so that 
immediately on reaching London, after changing his clothes 
at his lodgings, he had gone to see Madge and find out 
when she was expected. Then, before he had asked any 
questions about her, the door had opened and Hilda had 
appeared. It seemed to him that it took a long time 
to get out of his chair and go to meet her. There was 
a sense of constraint, of bewildered astonishment at the 
extent of feeling revealed to him by the sight of her. How 
fascinating, how beautifully shy she had looked coming 


212 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


across the back drawing-room ! What a delicious freshness 
in the raised colour, in the little natural curls about the high 
forehead. There was in her aspect something so infinitely 
better, purer and higher than in that of any other girl, and she 
was, especially, so much above the two other women who were 
in the room with her now ! But into that very moment of 
passionate feeling there had come a jarring note. She shook 
hands with him very gravely, and then turned smilingly to 
Mark Fieldes whom she had evidently seen already since 
her arrival, and he overheard them laying plans for meeting 
again. From that moment Marmaduke had begun to take 
Mark Fieldes seriously. Hilda’s manner varied enough to 
keep him on the stretch — at moments there was that delicious 
tremor and shyness about her that seemed to be an actual 
response to his own feelings, and then she would turn 
deliberately, sometimes almost vehemently, away from him, 
or seem relieved if somebody else intervened. 

These were many sensations to have crowded into the 
short interval between Hilda’s arrival in London and the 
burning of that pampas grass on which in his solitary hours 
he vented so many expletives. 

But at last the hands were healed and the touch of fever 
had passed off completely. He wrote to Madge on Thursday 
to tell her that he might come out to luncheon, and to ask if 
she would be at home next day, and he observed at the end 
of his note, “ it seems an age since I have seen you ”. 

Madge read the note at breakfast and remarked to 
Hilda 

“ Poor Marmaduke, what an odious time he has had of it. 
I shall have to stay at home for luncheon ; you will explain to 
Laura why I can’t come, won’t you, dear ? She really likes 
having you better than me, and I shall see her at her party. 
As poor Marmaduke says ‘ it is an age since he has seen 
me; it would really be unkind to go out.” 

Hilda’s first impulse on hearing of Marmaduke’s coming 


CECILIA APPEALS TO MARMADUKE. 213 

had hardly arisen before Madge’s final words made her 
answer quickly : — 

“ Oh, yes, I will go to Laura. Tell Marmaduke when he 
comes how glad I am he is all right.” 

Hilda after that gave her whole attention to a letter from 
her mother. Madge wondered for a moment what the letter 
could contain that Hilda's cheeks should be so flushed while 
she was reading it. 

At a few minutes past one Marmaduke followed the servant 
into the drawing-room. He could not run up as usual with- 
out being announced, because he could not open the door with 
his bandaged hands. Madge was reading the Morning Post 
by the fire. Hilda had her hat and jacket on, and was pulling 
on her gloves, with her back to the window. Marmaduke 
was still very weak and walked into the room with uncertain 
gait. He saw what Hilda’s attitude and her gloves meant 
in a moment, and he turned a shade more pale. Hilda was 
startled to see from his face how ill he had been. She 
went forward to him with an instinctive movement of 
sympathy. 

“ Oh, how ill you look ! ” she cried, holding out her hand 
and then withdrawing it with a pained glance at the sling 
which held the two scarred hands. The mixture of feelings 
was almost too much for him, — the joy in the mere sense of 
her presence, irrational anger at seeing that she was going 
out when he wanted her to be at home, his keen perception 
of the pity and feeling in her large eyes. 

“ I’m not ill, thanks,” he said rather gruffly, ‘'only shaky 
after the touch of fever.” 

Madge advanced with graceful cousinly bustle, got Marma- 
duke into a chair, and laughingly held a large bottle of salts 
at the right distance from his nose. Hilda stood silent for 
a moment and then said abruptly to Madge : — 

“ I must be off or I shall be late. I will tell Laura why 
you can’t come.” 


214 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“When shall you get back?” asked Madge, as Hilda 
moved towards the door. 

Marmaduke was looking wearily at the fire ; he did not 
move, Hilda noticed, or show that he knew what Madge 
had said. 

“Not before five o’clock, I think, as Laura and Mr. Fieldes 
want to see the pictures thoroughly.” 

Marmaduke observed that she did not even ask whether 
she should find him still there when she came back. Yet 
the look in her face, he thought to himself, had been so 
intensely kind. And now she was gone ; and how was he 
to pull through two long hours with Madge — while his hands 
smarted and his head ached. 

Why had not the ass of a doctor forbidden him to go 
out ! nobody wanted to see him ! 

Marmaduke thought himself glad to escape from Madge 
when the brougham, which the doctor had insisted upon, came 
to take him away at four o’clock. But as he drove off to 
his lodgings, the solitude awaiting him seemed intolerable. 
He would not and he could not go back. At the same 
moment he remembered that Miss Rupert had told him to 
come and see her, and that he should pass her house in 
Charles Street on his way. Marmaduke had been amused 
and attracted by Cecilia, and was not insensible to the fact 
that she had taken a great liking for him. 

Cecilia was at home, and a few moments later he was 
comfortably installed in the little back sitting-room. Her 
pleasure at seeing him was unfeigned. Even if there had 
been no further reason, if there had been no uneasy hanker- 
ing to be in touch with Madge’s surroundings, Cecilia would 
have been glad to see him. 

“ Now that he is pale he is even beautiful,” she thought, 
as she scanned his face with the frank enjoyment of a connois- 
seur. This was part of the freedom of her nature. “ Pagan, 
I regret to say,” to quote the immortal Pecksniff, but involv- 


CECILIA APPEALS TO MARMADUKE. 


215 


ing in her case a certain simplicity. The firelight was 
bright in the waning of a dull foggy day ; it lit up the dark 
eyes which, as they looked at her, betrayed some bodily pain 
and a mental state which made her kindly greeting and 
almost caressing manner a relief. Cecilia and he talked of 
many things, of India, of pig sticking, of home and hunting ; 
but it was inevitable that they should talk of Madge and 
Hilda. And in Cecilia’s manner there was a struggle of 
sympathies checked by various motives. She hated Madge ; 
she liked Hilda well enough ; but she wanted this man to 
make love to Madge, and obviously he preferred Hilda. She 
was, it has been said, a novice in diplomacy, and he had the 
far more complete simplicity of a man. So the talk was 
crude and disjointed, Marmaduke, a little disappointed at 
not being able to speak much of Hilda, Cecilia praising and 
pitying “ little Madge ”. At last Cecilia stumbled almost 
unawares on what was needed. 

“ I suppose Madge is not what you would call a strict 
Catholic. But people are so different. Some friends of 
Lord Bellasis made such a fuss about driving, I don’t know 
how far, from Bellasis to go to Mass. Madge had said 
nothing about it.” 

Marmaduke looked up quickly at this, and an anxious ex- 
pression came into his eyes. “ Was Madge at Bellasis for 
several Sundays ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, on and off, for eight or nine Sundays at least. 
And she went to Mass two or three times if the carriage took 
anybody else, but she would not have it for herself. I think 
she was quite right. I can’t think people need make them- 
selves so tiresome about religion. Then you know how 
religious people fidget about early church. I have never 
heard Madge allude to going out early, since I have known 
her. And besides all that, you know she isn’t straitlaced 
about anything, she is not difficile in her ways and her 
manners.” 


2I6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


There was no doubt that Marmaduke was thinking about 
Madge now. Cecilia went on with a little laugh. 

“ I know I am a heathen in your eyes, but I think if I had 
any religion I would do it thoroughly. Madge never makes 
the “ confessions ” which other Roman Catholic women I 
know go in for so often — she certainly never went at 
Bellasis. It seems so queer to believe in all the sort of 
things Madge believes in, heaven and hell, and the whole 
future affair, and all her Church sacraments, and for it to 
make so little difference to her.” 

“ But don’t you believe in more than you act up to ? 
You are an exception if you live up to your theories what- 
ever they are.” 

“ Yes, but then I whittle away the theories when I don’t 
want them.” 

“ That is just what Madge can’t do,” said Marmaduke, 
smiling. 

“ Because she is a Catholic ? ” asked Cecilia, rising from 

her chair and standing opposite to him, “and yet ” 

she looked at him with a mystifying smile and paused. 

“ And yet what ? ” 

“ Well, you see,” said Cecilia frankly, “ I don’t know how 
much you know about what is going on, so I am rather 
hampered. Hasn’t it struck you that Madge is in a queer 
state of mind ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Marmaduke. The growing anxiety 
in his pale face was exactly what she wanted to see there. 

“ Would you all be very much put out if she gave up 
being a Catholic ? ” 

“ Oh, she won’t do that,” and Marmaduke laughed. 
“ You don’t know what it is to do that.” 

“ Well,” said Cecilia, “ of course it is nothing to me, but 
I think some of your people had better look after her. She 
is in a very tight corner.” 

She paused again, and a servant, bringing in a lamp. 


CECILIA APPEALS TO MARMADUKE. 


217 


prevented her from continuing. Marmaduke saw her face 
distinctly now, and when they were again alone he said 
quite simply : — 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

It was the strain, the passion expressed in her grey 
eyes that had startled him. 

“ I can*t tell you,” she answered and her voice shook, 

only ” another pause. 

“ Only ? ” repeated Marmaduke, very gently. 

“ Only, Mr. Marmaduke,” in a voice struggling to be 
calm, “ if you wish to save a soul, ah, and to save a heart,” 
she covered her face with her hands, “ for pity’s sake keep 
close to Madge, take care of her ! You don’t know what 
good you may do.” She got up, and her face was disfigured 
with tears, which had come in an instant. She looked sud- 
denly aged. She tried to laugh. “ How melodramatic, 
wasn’t I ? But you know I am fond of Madge, and I believe 
people have hearts, and you believe they have souls. You 
think souls so precious because of a future life ; and I think 
hearts the only thing worth anything in the earth below, or 
the heavens above, or in the waters under the earth. It has 
been bad for you, all this talk while you are ill. I ought not 
to have done it, but I don’t know what time there may be 
yet before, before ” 

“ Oh, it won’t hurt me,” said Marmaduke feebly, “thank 
you very much. I won’t pretend to understand, because I 
don’t ; but I will try to help, though what on earth I can do 
without knowing more I can’t imagine. I think I must go 
now.” He had turned a shade paler, and he closed his eyes. 
Then with an effort he pulled himself together and went away. 

Cecilia, unnerved and upset, sank back in her chair. 

“ Poor little goose of a Hilda. He went out of my room like 
a knight to the combat, with his moral spear in rest. Mar- 
maduke a la rescousse. All for that puny abstraction, Madge’s 
soul ! And every word I spoke was true, so awfully true.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 

“ Rather a full night,” whispered Cecilia to Madge whom 
she had followed closely into the Hurstmonceaux’ long, 
narrow drawing-room on Monday, the night of the party. 
She was craning her head about, looking on either side 
with her peculiar gaze. 

At the other end of the room Madge distinctly saw Lord 
Bellasis. Hilda had been kept back for a moment by her 
hostess at the door. 

“ I’ve heard such a thing said of you to-day, my dear, that 
I cannot resist the indiscretion of repeating it. Fancy one 
of our best known authors declaring that you have one of 
the most remarkable minds he has ever come across. But 
il faut me taire^ At that moment Fieldes appeared in the 
doorway. Hilda drew back, and he turned instantly to 
her. Hilda was shy but greatly excited, and indeed what 
young woman of eighteen with literary tendencies would 
not have been excited by such a compliment ? She felt that 
she must keep up this reputation for a remarkable mind by 
plunging into a deep discussion with Mr. Fieldes, but first 
she wanted to know “ who was the handsome lady with the 
huge diamonds who was speaking to Madge ”. 

“That is a charming woman,” observed Fieldes in a low 
voice, “ the Duchess of A.” 

“ And who is Miss Rupert’s friend ? ” 

Cecilia was already sitting in a corner talking eagerly to 
a tall, heavy-featured, muscular son of Britain. 

(2 1 8) 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 219 


“ That man listening to Miss Rupert is Lord Bellasis. 
Have you not seen him before ? You will see plenty of him 
now that you have begun to go about.’" 

“ Why, and how ? ” 

“ He is a great admirer of Mrs. George Riversdale’s.” 

Hilda looked shy, which amused Fieldes. 

“ The funny thing is that though he is the most stiff and 
particular of mortals, he is such a friend of Miss Rupert’s.” 

Yes, he might be a friend of Cecilia’s, but his eyes were 
constantly directed elsewhere, as Hilda after this hint ob- 
served. For some time she and Mark continued to talk, but 
it must be owned that neither of them gave evidence of their 
remarkable intellects. Fieldes very much enjoyed doing 
cicerone to the London world, and as there were fresh arrivals 
or departures, or one group shifted itself into another, he was 
full of information not badly given. But what puzzled his 
audience was that the conduct of the people he described did 
not seem to fit in with what he led her to expect. Lady R., 
a very great friend of his, a “ dear woman,” gave Mr. Fieldes 
a very slight nod ; while Mrs. K. whom he “ hardly knew,” 
who “ lived somewhere in Richmond,” seized him by the 
hand and said, “ Remember we didn’t finish that talk last 
Thursday ”. 

At length a very smartly dressed youngish woman, in pale 
green satin, wearing a striking necklace of black pearls, 
descended on them and began — 

'‘Ah, Mr. Fieldes, we are all full of the Bi-monthly 
article.” 

Fieldes responded eagerly ; and at that moment to Hilda’s 
surprise Marmaduke appeared by her side. 

“You ought not to be here!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it 
very foolish to come out at night already ? ” 

He was very pale, but the paleness suited him. One arm 
was in a sling, the left hand was enough healed for him to- 
wear a glove. 


220 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Very foolish, if you think so,” he answered, laughing. 

Their eyes met with the sense of sympathy which Hilda 
could not always conquer. For her own sake, as well as his, 
she wished he had not come. He would spoil her pleasure 
and do himself harm. She had only met his look for a 
moment ; then she tried to assume the bright air with which 
she had been speaking to Mark. 

“Who is that woman with the lovely eyes and pearls 
talking to Mr. Fieldes ? ” she whispered. 

“ I don’t know,” said Marmaduke ; “ I don’t know a face 
here.” 

To Hilda, full of excitement at her plunge into society, 
this ignorance of the world was dull and rather contemptible. 

“ Of course you have been so long in India,” she said in a 
tone of kindly condescension which rather amused Marma- 
duke. 

They were interrupted by the general “ hush,” which an- 
nounced that Herr Joachim had just begun to play a Hun- 
garian dance. Hilda listened with rapt attention, and 
Marmaduke sat down beside her. When the music ceased 
she turned to him, but they were interrupted by Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux, and Marmaduke moved away. 

“ There is such a nice girl here, who particularly wants to 
know you. Miss Rupert, Miss Riversdale,” and round the 
corner appeared a fair, rather plain, well-dressed girl of 
cheerful countenance, whom the hostess had been puzzled 
how to dispose of. 

“ I’m not Miss Rupert,” she said cheerfully ; “ Fm only 
Cecilia’s cousin.” Her manner implied “ I’m a person of no 
kind of consequence, but I’m really very nice when you know 
me ”. “ Do you know Cecilia ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Hilda, “ isn’t she fascinating ? ” 

Cecilia’s cousin laughed good-humouredly. 

“ Oh, if 3^ou are with Mrs. George Riversdale, you must 
see plenty of Cecilia ; they are bosom friends.” Her innocent 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 221 


eyes turned from Cecilia and Lord Bellasis towards Madge, 
and she gave a little laugh. “ They form a trio generally, 
and they would like to be all together now probably, only that 
Austrian secretary is so attentive to your cousin.” 

At that moment Cecilia rose and walked towards Madge, 
but Lord Bellasis did not follow her. He had turned to a 
little group of ladies near him. 

“ And do you like London ? ” continued the cousin, trying 
to make talk to Hilda, when a young man whom she knew 
intervened, and asked her if she would have some supper. 

“ Me ! ” she exclaimed, in a voice of surprise. “ Do you 
mean me ? Do you know my back is so often taken for 
Cecilia’s ! ” and with a laugh she disappeared. 

An interval, hardly long enough for Hilda to feel that she 
was alone, followed, before Marmaduke had come back to 
her. Just as they left the room she noticed the lady with 
the beautiful pearls presenting Mr. Fieldes to the Duchess 
of A. 

They went down to supper, and ate some delicious sand- 
wiches, like little breakfast-rolls cut up in a hurry. Hilda 
was enthusiastic about the rolls, about the lemonade (she 
had resolved not to drink champagne), about everything. It 
all seemed like a play got up for her amusement, the little 
snatches of talk she could distinguish, the affectations which 
she half admired although they amused her. She said to 
Marmaduke : — 

“ Isn’t this fun ? don’t you enjoy studying life ? I do.” 

“ Do you call this life ? ” inquired Marmaduke in a dull 
absent voice. 

However, it didn’t matter ; there was plenty of amusement 
without his being required to add to it. 

“ Shall we go ? ” he asked when she had finished. 

“ Yes,” said Hilda and they made their way to the door. 
When they got close to it they were brought to a standstill 
by the crowd, and as they stood there silently Hilda heard 


222 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


some words which she hardly noticed then, but which came 
back to her afterwards with an almost superstitious sense ot 
their appropriateness to her conduct that evening. A rather 
affected slightly passes woman, with a good figure and an 
air of conscious youthfulness, was engaged in an argument 
with an old general, when with mock solemnity he turned 
from her with the following words : “ Too late, my dear 
lady, too late. You are not the first woman who has thrown 
away a faithful heart from some motive of pique, and who 
has lived to repent it.” 

The crowd in the hall had increased, going and coming 
from the supper- room, with additional arrivals of late theatre- 
goers. Presently Hilda thought she recognised the face of 
a well-known actor among them. 

“Isn’t that S B ?” she whispered eagerly to 

Marmaduke. 

“ I don’t know, I have only seen him once,” Marmaduke 
answered abstractedly. “Shall we go this way?” he was 
leading her across the hall to a small deserted conserva- 
tory. 

“ The German is singing again,” observed Hilda, who 
wanted to go back to the drawing-room. 

Marmaduke made no answer. The little conservatory 
was empty ; a few Chinese lanterns lit it dimly. It was 
decidedly dull ; there was nothing to see ; and the magnificent 
baritone upstairs was rolling out the “ Two Grenadiers,” 
which she had often heard mentioned as his masterpiece. 

“It is the ‘ Two Grenadiers/ ” said Hilda sadly, but again 
Marmaduke made no answer. 

Suddenly he took hold of her hand with his left one, and 
she trembled. Alas for them both ! it was the worst moment 
he could have chosen. He was jealous, he was irritable, he 
was ill and overstrung; and these feelings, though they 
added intensity to his tones, did but arouse a combative 
instinct in her. His mind and heart were simple and 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 223 


manly ; he was particularly devoid of pettiness, but all the 
more incapable of dissimulating the kind of irritation which 
his love experienced from Hilda. 

“ Hilda,” he said abruptly, “ I love you : could you,” a 
little break in his voice interrupted him, “ could you care 
for me ? ” 

Startled beyond measure, nervous and frightened at this 
very new experience, she looked up at the angry eyes (as 
they seemed to her) that were looking at her, and the spirit 
of defiance broke out in her. She defied him ; and she defied 
something else, she could not have told what for the world. 

“No, I could not,” she cried angrily, “ and,” she went on 
passionately, “ I don’t believe it.” 

Her tone had a bitterness that surprised herself. Oh why, 
she thought, must she go through this, why did he not see 
that it was humiliating to her? was his self-deception so 
complete ? This was not an intentional mockery, she felt 
sure, but it was an utter delusion. She almost said aloud : — 

“Can’t you see, won’t you see, that you still love Madge?” 

Poor child, it was hard to bear. Mark’s insinuations, 
Madge’s vanity, Cecilia’s broader hints, had done their 
work ; and she believed it now. It seemed to her so cruel 
that she should be asked for love for the first time in this 
way. Was he trying to save himself from Madge ? Perhaps 
he knew that Madge cared for some one else ? Could he be 
asking for her heart as a refuge ? She could not be sure. 
She was sure he cared for Madge. All else was confusion. 

Men have often been angry with the goodness that seems 
to make women hard. Hilda was crying out against the 
goodness that could make a man so stupid. 

“ Oh, thank God, thank God,” she thought, “ that I don’t 
love him, or this would be unbearable.” Her eyes filled 
with tears. 

She turned from him abruptly, and began to pull at the 
leaves of a creeper by her side. '' 


224 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Marmaduke was greatly startled. He had been intensely 
anxious. In his fear that she had already been attracted 
by Fieldes, he had only put his fate to the touch lest 
delay might make things worse. But he had expected to 
be treated gently. This almost rough, passionate conduct 
startled and hurt him. His wounded irritability turned into 
temper, and he lost the chance of making her explain 
herself. Never had she looked more lovely than when 
answering him so defiantly. But never had he felt more 
capable of tearing himself violently from her than he quite 
suddenly did at this moment. 

“You do believe in Mr. Fieldes ? ” he said in a smothered 
voice. 

“ And if I do ? ” said Hilda angrily. 

“ It is no business of mine. Thank you, Hilda. Well, 
though he is an unbelieving snob and though he doesn’t care 
for you ” 

“ Who said he did care for me ? ” interrupted Hilda 
angrily. 

“ Though he doesn’t care for you a tenth part as much as 
I do, I can hardly wish that he should be treated as I have 
been treated. And, Hilda, if another man should ever offer 
you his heart and tell you that he is ready to do anything 
on this earth to please you, remember that this sort of treat- 
ment may send one to the devil.” 

Hilda gave a little sob, and with her head still averted 
and her trembling hands pressed against the wall, she cried : 
“ Oh, Marmaduke, how can you, how can you ? ” 

Perhaps, perhaps if he had made her turn round then — 
but at that moment Madge appeared in the doorway escorted 
by Mr. Fieldes. 

“Come, Hilda,” she said, “I’m tired and want to get 
home.” 

Madge looked both tired and worried ; but Hilda was too 
much occupied with the control of her own face to notice 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 22$ 

her chaperon’s. The two ladies fetched their cloaks and 
found Marmaduke and Fieldes waiting for them in the little 
crowd outside in the hall. Madge immediately began to speak 
to her cousin in a low voice. 

“ Marmaduke,” she said, “ where have you been all the 
evening ? Why didn’t you talk to me ? Are you too going 
to leave me alone ? ” 

The sad little face was turned up to him, gentle and 
pitiful. He looked down at her with a glow of sympathy. 
He too was hurt. He too was wounded and sore. He 
smiled at her sadly. 

“ And I thought it was I who wasn’t wanted,” he said, as 
if it were a small joke. Hilda turned away from them to 
Mr. Fieldes. 

“When,” she said eagerly, “are you going to the 
Positivist Chapel ? ” 

“ Next Monday, so Mrs. Riversdale has decreed,” answered 
Fieldes. 

They were walking across the hall as they spoke. Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux was standing on the lowest step of the 
staircase leaning on the banister. Lord Bellasis was below 
listening to her, but as Madge came towards them he said 
good-night to his hostess and vanished. It was the third 
time that Madge had been close to him, and he had made 
no attempt to speak to her. Marmaduke had gone to see 
after the carriage. Mrs. Hurstmonceaux drew Madge towards 
her and they sat down on a step of the staircase. 

“ Child,” said the older woman in a half-jesting tone, 
“you mustn’t look so tired.” 

“ No,” said Madge bitterly, “ I know I mustn’t. A lonely 
woman should be as strong as a giant.” Madge’s eyes 
looked large and ghostlike and her hair was ruffled. Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux did not like bitterness or untidy hair. That 
very evening she had been talking to the Duchess of A. 
about Madge, who had been the link between them. Laura 

15 


226 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


had flowed in speaking of her friend’s virtues, and the 
duchess had said it was quite time that she should marry 
again. Mrs. Hurstmonceaux had answered by a still further 
eulogium. 

“ Madge,” she said, “ always brings to my mind those 
words, ‘ blessed are the pure in heart 

“ Quite so,” said the duchess, who had had enough of 
the subject, “ and now, dear Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, find her 
a husband ; she is so pretty, it will not be difficult,” and 
she glanced expressively at Lord Bellasis. But even to a 
duchess Laura betrayed nothing. 

Since that little talk Laura had heard other things about 
Madge which pleased her less, and she did not quite approve 
of her as she appeared in the hall in company with Marma- 
duke. She was going to speak when Madge prevented her. 

“ Laura,” she said in a low hurried tone, “ Laura, have 
you said anything to Lord Bellasis ? ” 

“No,” said Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, looking at her keenly; 
“ I think that that little affair had better die a natural 
death.” 

Madge looked up quickly. 

“ Don’t let him know that I can’t do it, — I mean not at 
once, you know. But, Laura, why has he avoided me the 
whole evening ? ” 

“ Why, indeed ? ” said Mrs. Hurstmonceaux in a light 
tone, as Marmaduke came within earshot. 

Hilda and Madge drove home in silence, Madge was 
generally observant, Hilda not the reverse ; but they were 
both self-occupied, and with a common egotism each sup- 
posed herself to be watched by the other. Madge, in 
order to distract attention from her own tired face, took 
Hilda into her room when they got home, and talked 
brightly while her maid was undressing her. Since she 
had been in trouble Madge had given up any little habits 
of consideration for her servants she might have had before. 


THE EVENING AT THE HURSTMONCEAUX’. 22/ 


and Celestine in particular had had a hard life of it. So 
Madge and Hilda spoke with eagerness of the party, laughed 
at the frumps, and admired the beauties with spirit for some 
few minutes, until the maid had gone. Hilda then rose to 
go also, but was surprised by Madge’s suddenly putting her 
arms round her neck and kissing her, while she looked at 
her with dry, burning eyes of apparent affection. 

Madge was not at that moment very particularly devoted 
to Hilda. She was wilfully ignoring the hint she had re- 
ceived that she might help her towards a happy marriage 
with Marmaduke ; in fact, Madge’s deluded vanity made her 
half-consciously inclined to keep him to herself. But that 
night she wanted something to kiss, something to cling to, 
some human touch to soothe her, some living thing to 
caress, and to pet her in return. 

Hilda was touched. Madge, a tiny, childlike figure in her 
silk night-gown, her little feet half showing in her Turkish 
slippers, for the first time weak and clinging, was very 
pathetic. Hilda kissed her affectionately. 

“ Go to bed, little Madge,” she said. And Hilda persuaded 
her to lie down, tucked her into the sheets, and smoothed 
her hair away from her forehead. 

“ Don’t go, Hilda, stay and talk to me.” 

But after a very few moments of disjointed talk Madge 
felt sleepy and said so irritably. Then Hilda gladly escaped 
to her own room, and when she had torn off her gown — that 
lovely new gown which Madge would have respected had it 
been hers, even in the moment of supremest emotion — she 
knelt down by her bed, buried her face in her hands and 
sobbed. 

Oh why, why was it all so sad ? Why had her first party 
been such a horrid failure ? Why was Marmaduke like 
that ? Why, oh why, was she herself such a nasty horrid 
girl? 

She said her prayers with words broken by sobs, then got 


228 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


up and brushed out her great mass of hair, threaded with 
gold among the brown, and stood looking at herself in the 
glass. She was thinking the matter over after a favourite 
manner of hers, as though it were somebody else’s affair. 

“ Such a pity,” she thought, looking at the girl who 
was brushing her hair in the glass, such a nice Catholic 
marriage it might have been, such a noble-hearted, good 
man, so true and strong ; and she a remarkably clever girl ; 
it was a pity he didn’t really care for her ; he had never got 
over that other affair, you know, and the girl didn’t care the 
very least bit for him. Oh dear, what a stupid world.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


MADGE H4S A NEW FEAR. 

Madge was sitting on a low chair by the fire in her bedroom 
about ten o’clock next morning ; her elbows resting on her 
knees and her face buried in her hands. She had slept little 
during the night, and her wakeful hours had been crowded 
with painful thoughts. She had been drifting onward for the 
past week, hugging the thought that she need not speak 
yet, while aloud and explicitly she told herself that the 
temptation was conquered. On the strength of the fact that 
she had said “ no ” to Laura, she had continued to repeat 
her prayers, and go to Sunday Mass ; but that she had not 
said “ no ” to Lord Bellasis himself had been the main fact 
of her present existence. 

However, this phase of her mental life had been too misty, 
too intangible to put into words. In it what was explicit was 
not true ; but it was reiterated loudly enough to allow the 
underlying current to flow on undisturbed. She had wondered 
what she was going to do, as though she had been a mere on- 
looker. And to the onlookerthe prospect had brilliantglimpses, 
special scenes, on yachts, in drawing-rooms at Bellasis Castle, 
with a little figure admirably dressed as their centre. But she 
had not looked in the face of that little figure. She dreaded 
to detect on it a look of shame. For that little figure of 
Madge, Countess of Bellasis, safely and securely assured by 
English law of the rights of a Christian wife, would be in 
her own eyes weighted with dishonour. That in Madge’s 
eyes the woman who married an innocent divorcee was no 

(229) 


230 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


more than his mistress, was a simple fact which must be 
realised before her position can be understood. To state 
this is not controversy ; it is a mere matter of psychological 
accuracy, necessary for the understanding of the rest of her 
story. 

In this state of mind Madge had gone to the party at the 
Hurstmonceaux’, taking with her Cecilia as well as Hilda. 
She had gone, as she always went into society now, 
wondering whether Lord Bellasis would be there, and wonder- 
ing what would be the outcome of the evening if they should 
meet. They had not, as we have seen, met once since Laura’s 
communication. And the relief she had felt on each occasion 
when she had expected to see him, had imparted a touch of 
real thankfulness to her prayers. Somehow, too, she was 
feeling more kindly towards Skipton. She liked Marma- 
duke’s visits, which were growing more frequent. She had 
read and re-read a kind letter from the squire about some 
unimportant matter of business. The very day it arrived 
she had expected to meet Bellasis at an evening party. Madge 
had put down the letter with a short sigh before starting. 
This was the evening on which Bellasis had actually been 
in the room when she arrived. But he had left a few minutes 
later, apparently without having seen her come. It was a 
relief. And when she got home that evening she read the 
squire’s letter again, and the tears stood in her eyes. 

At the Hurstmonceaux’ party she again expected to meet 
Lord Bellasis, and she thought she felt more equal to it — less 
uncertain of the issue. 

“ It will be our parting,” she murmured to herself. But 
she was not long in the room before a new development 
of the situation dawned upon her. She began to doubt 
whether the temptation were still offered to her, if the game 
were really still in her own hands. The knowledge of power 
which had blown out the sense of her own consequence to 
its full extent, received a warning prick. Perhaps, after all, 


MADGE HAS A NEW FEAR. 23 1 

this large bit of the world’s best of goods was not lying at 
her feet. 

That evening she spent two hours in the same room with 
Lord Bellasis and he did not approach her ; he all but cut 
her. It was the first time that he had ever failed to make 
her a centre for others at an evening party, by his own 
marked attentions. His presence had in the ordinary course 
an extraordinary effect on the demeanour of his women 
friends in her regard. It was to her the breath of life to 
belong to that set of women, and she had managed so 
admirably with them all at Bellasis. There had been 
several of the group at Laura’s house, for it was known that 
Lord Bellasis was to dine there. This was almost the first 
large party he had gone to since the opening of Parliament, 
and they were there surrounding their idol, gracefully, with- 
out too much insistence, but with an air of belonging to 
each other and admitting one another into a family party. 
And some of them when they first came in greeted Madge 
as quite one of themselves. 

But with the marvellous rapidity of their trained percep- 
tions, they had quickly seen that Lord Bellasis was leaving 
her out in the cold, and was occupying himself with Cecilia. 
Nor did Cecilia quite keep her head. Her spirits rose too 
high, and her “good night” had a touch of impertinence 
towards her hostess as she went away with young Lady 
Farley, ignoring Madge who had brought her to the party. 

And Madge felt that Laura saw it all. She knew that 
Laura knew that while she appeared to be so happily occupied 
with the Austrian attache, while she had supper with the 
often-snubbed but now radiant Mark Fieldes, she was really 
in torment. And yet if she had but sent him a message, if 
she had answered when he wanted her to answer, what would 
have been her position now ? Engaged to Lord Bellasis. The 
scene at that evening party might easily be imagined. The 
contrast was vividly present to her. If Bellasis had given 


232 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


her the slightest opportunity, Madge would at that moment 
have offered herself to him instantly and absolutely. Her 
soul would have been a poor price to pay to be saved from 
such humiliation. But he had not given her the chance, and 
in the watches of the night she doubted whether he ever 
would give her the chance again. 

In the morning light, with her still cold hands pressed on 
her hot forehead, and her untasted breakfast on the tray 
beside her, she tried to understand better what was passing. 
An unpleasant light was thrown on the events of the past 
days. Had Lord Bellasis’s frequent failures to appear come 
from a wish to avoid her ? What did he mean ? Was he 
trying to retire, to back out of what he had said ? Had 
he taken her silence as a refusal ? Or had Laura said 
something to put him off or turned it into a refusal ? Had 
he perhaps never meant Laura to be so explicit ? Had 
Laura been playing some game of her own ? It was 
possible that he had only asked Laura to feel her way, and 
find out what in general would be Madge’s view of the 
marriage of an innocent.divorcee. And had Laura made too 
much of it, and then — Madge rose and walked about the 
room, the thought was maddening — had Laura for some 
purpose of her own led Madge on to a refusal before he had 
proposed ? 

She became more and more confused, rejecting suspicions 
and recurring to them again in a circle that always ended in 
the wish, the determination, to see Lord Bellasis alone, to 
judge for herself what power she now had over him, and for 
how long he would stand suspense. “ It is not too late, 

surely it is not too late,” she muttered, “ and yet ” She 

heaved a deep sigh ; but it was time to dress now. 

Before she began the long ceremony which produced the 
dainty finished effect in which she was remarkably successful, 
she moved to a corner of the room and knelt down as usual 
before the little altar. 


MADGE HAS A NEW FEAR. 


233 


She concluded her prayers rather abruptly, and walked 
across to the glass. She saw that her eyes betrayed the 
weeping, and bathed them in hot water ; then she went back 
to the dressing-table and powdered her face artistically, glanc- 
ing at the effect with each addition of whiteness. 

She then rang for her maid, and soon they were both 
absorbed in work which took their whole attention, and had 
a singularly soothing influence on Madge’s nerves. The 
sense of perfect grooming is a wonderful sedative. If — 

Serenely full the epicure may say, 

Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day. 

SO also — 

Serenely fair the Hegante may say. 

Fate cannot harm me. I’m well dressed to-day. 

But with neither can such pleasant feelings be sure of 
remaining unruffled. As with other sedatives, the effect is 
passing. 

Madge was writing notes in the drawing-room when Hilda 
came in from a shopping expedition^ith her maid. Madge 
was glad to see her. She wanted somebody to talk to, and 
she began to discuss Hilda’s purchases with animation. A 
hat had to be looked at and some shoes. Madge approved 
the shoes but condemned the hat. 

“ I must take you back there this afternoon,” she said. 
“ You shouldn’t try to buy a hat alone. Where did you go 
to for it ? ” 

“ I saw it in a shop in Oxford Street.” 

“ My dear, how silly,” said Madge in a superior voice ; 
“ you never can get the right things in the wrong places, 
unless you’ve a genius for rearranging them yourself. How 
could you judge of it from outside; and when you got in I 
suppose they overpersuaded you ? I must take you to a 
proper place. Valerie had some beauties yesterday. Yes, 
we will go to Valdrie.” 


234 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


And to Valdrie Hilda knew they would go, and would buy 
a hat costing three times as much money as the one Brown 
had helped her to choose ; and her bills were already rather 
alarming. One of Madge’s consolations in the present crisis 
was to spend a great deal of money ; and as she was in an 
extravagant mood, she was extravagant for Hilda as well as 
for herself. 

“ It was a stupid party last night,” said Madge suddenly. 
Hilda blushed scarlet, and Madge thought she was thinking 
of her. 

“ I’m not a judge of parties,” said Hilda, putting the con- 
demned hat sadly into its box. “ I thought there were some 
very pretty people. Who was the dream of beauty in pale 
green satin — she wore black pearls ? ” 

“ Oh, that is a cousin of Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, Mrs. 
Amherst, a great friend of the Duchess of A. She is really 
handsome, though I shouldn’t be so ecstatic as you are about 
her. Her features are too straight and it’s a great pity her 
teeth are not straighter. She married Mr. Amherst two 
years after he divorced his first wife.” 

Hilda looked at Madge in horrified amazement. 

“ Oh, Madge, how shocking ! ” 

Madge gave a loud laugh which jarred on Hilda. 

“ My dear innocent, even in your sylvan retirement you 
must have heard of divorce laws.” 

Madge’s face darkened as she spoke. 

“ Of course I’ve heard of divorce, but I never, never thought 
that a good woman would really marry a man like that. 
But then I suppose my beauty isn’t a good woman. Oh 
dear, how sad ! ” 

Hilda was standing with a bunch of scarlet anemones, 
which she had just bought, held up to her face, pretending 
to sniff at their scentless magnificence, but in reality trying 
to hide the blushes which would come in talking of such a 
subject. For a moment Madge thought Hilda had been put 


MADGE HAS A NEW FEAR. 


235 


up to the situation, that she had been prying upon her, and 
was now preaching. She sprang up, upset the small table 
that stood by her chair, and rushing across to Hilda caught 
hold of her two hands roughly. 

“ What do you mean by saying that ; tell me what you 
mean ? ” 

For a moment Hilda thought that Madge was really mad. 
She had thought her very very odd before. Sometimes she 
looked so excited as to appear almost crazy, and now evidently 
she was becoming violent. What on earth was Hilda to do ? 
I'he brilliant colour faded from her cheeks and she looked a 
picture of terror. 

“ Tell me,” repeated Madge, tightening her grasp, “what 
do you mean ? Who has put you up to preaching at me ? ” 

“ You ? ” cried Hilda again, “ what on earth have you got 
to do with it ? ” 

Madge felt that she had made a mistake. She dropped 
Hilda’s hands and tried to recover herself. 

“ Really, Madge, what do you mean ? ” ventured Hilda^ 
when she saw a more sane expression return into her com- 
panion’s face. “ What could I have said ? You must have 
misunderstood me. One comfort is that however worldly 
Catholics are, this is not one of their temptations.” 

“ Thank you, my dear. I’m perfectly aware that I am a 
Catholic,” said Madge in a cold angry voice, “ but I don’t 
know why you should think me so worldly.” 

“ You ? ” cried Hilda, “ what can you have to do with it ? ” 
She coloured violently, but before she could speak again 
Madge had rushed past her out of the room with streaming 
eyes. A moment afterwards through the door which Madge 
had left open Hilda heard her saying in a voice of forced 
brightness : — 

“ Good morning, Marmaduke, I’ve got to see my dress- 
maker, but I’ll be down presently. You will find Hilda in 
there.” 


236 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda was new to such agitations. In her quiet life at 
home there had been no scenes, no sudden necessity for 
command of countenance when her feelings were excited. 
Feelings had been deep but placid. It might be almost 
a want in her education that she hadn’t mixed more in 
the lives of men and women, and come across something 
of their struggle, pain and passion. Madge’s rushing 
out of the room in tears unnerved Hilda completely ; it 
frightened her with doubts as to how she herself could ever 
learn how to behave, how to be tactful and discreet and not 
hurt people’s feelings, when they looked half crazy and 
the slightest word seemed to fire a mine. Hilda was 
naturally given to generalisations, and she was im- 
mensely oppressed by the difficulties of life and her own 
incapacity for dealing with them. Last night she had been 
clumsy and rough with Marmaduke ; to-day she had made 
Madge cry. What a world ! Making a hasty effort to appear 
natural she began to unpack the hat again so as to have a 
look of occupation. Poor new hat, it was not receiving the 
gentlest treatment. Marmaduke finding her blushing, her 
hands trembling, and on her eyelids a suspicion of tears which 
she seemed anxious to hide, felt a sudden uncontrollable hope 
that she might be softening, might even be sorry for what 
she had said the night before. He looked at her eagerly. 

“ Good morning,” said Hilda excitedly, “ isn’t this tiresome, 
look at this hat, Madge says it won’t do, and yet it doesn’t 
suit me badly, does it ? ” 

She put it on as she spoke and Marmaduke felt a sickly 
feeling creeping over him. Was she really simply a vain 
self-occupied girl who could coquette with him just after 
refusing him ? He stood back and looked at her very 
gravely — how beautiful she was to him, how wonder- 
fully beautiful with the great deep eyes with a suspicious 
dew on them which had not yet reddened the eyelids ; the 
whole face, with its slightly irregular features which seemed 


MADGE HAS A NEW FEAR. 


237 


to have been made to express emotion, so tell-tale and sen- 
sitive were they, and the exquisitely arched forehead ; — no, 
surely, surely she could not be devoid of feeling. Had he 
been calmer he must have seen that she was not giving a 
thought to her own appearance at that moment, and he might 
have seen that a curious look, a half-sad expression, as if she 
were asking something from himself, had come into her face. 
Yes, she was thinking whether in such a difficult world 
a very good man who really and truly cared for one very 
much would not be — well — nearly everything ? But after a 
second she looked across him to the glass that hung opposite. 

“Why,” she cried, with a little nervous laugh, looking at 
the hat in the glass, “ it is on the wrong way.’’ 

She took it off and began to put it back in the box ; she 
wished Marmaduke would speak and not look so horribly 
angry. 

“ They ought to send these things in bigger boxes,” she 
said, sitting down with her back to him and forcing the 
hat into the cardboard box. “ Oughtn’t they ? ” she added 
interrogatively. 

“ What things ? ” asked Marmaduke in a stern voice. 

“ Why hats, of course,” said Hilda, and silence followed ; 
but she could not sit with her back to him any longer. She 
would be bold. She would try an experiment. She faced 
round on her chair, leaning over the back, and said : — 

“ Madge was crying, and it was I who made her cry”. 

The change was instantaneous, the peculiar way of look- 
ing at Hilda was gone, for hope had gone too. This then 
was what had upset her, nothing to do with him. He sat 
down and said with interest : — 

“ Crying, what about ? ” 

“Well,” said Hilda hesitating, “nothing”; then it oc- 
curred to her that he might think their quarrel was about 
himself, and she must say something more to prevent that. 

“ It was about a friend of Madge’s whom I don’t like.” 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


238 

“ Who ? ” persisted Marmaduke. 

“ Mrs. Amherst.” 

“ Mrs. Amherst, is she a friend of Madge’s ? ” 

“ Yes, Madge was angry at my thinking she could not be 
a good woman because she married Mr. Amherst. She said 
I was preaching at her.” 

“ Yes ! ” said Marmaduke, but it was a questioning “ yes ”. 
Hilda was shy and could not go on. Marmaduke was too 
anxious to hear about Madge to be considerate even for her 
she thought. 

“ Only it ended in my saying that it was a comfort 
Catholics were out of some temptations, you know, and 
Madge said angrily that she quite remembered that she 
was a Catholic.” 

Hilda had looked away as she spoke, and was greatly 
relieved at having said so much. She felt that there was 
something in the air beyond her comprehension, and Mar- 
maduke above anybody could be trusted. He was looking 
puzzled and worried. 

“ Hilda,” he said quickly in a low but more natural voice, 
“ perhaps I ought not to worry you by being here after last 
night. The correct thing would be for me to go away, I 
know ; but you will understand that I must be here,” his 
voice trembled, “ for Madge’s sake, won’t you ? There is 
something up I can’t understand, and she has nobody to 
help her.” 

“ Yes, of course,” said Hilda in a voice of disappointing 
hardness, “of course, let us play as the children do that last 
night never happened.” 

A moment’s silence and then Mr. Mark Fieldes was 
announced. 

“ I came to see if you and Mrs. George Riversdale could 
come to the Positivist Chapel to-day,” he said in his sharp 
metallic voice. “ It is going to be closed for repairs and so 
it is our last chance.” 


MADGE HAS A NEW FEAR. 


239 


“ Delightful,” cried Hilda, “ and you will stay to lunch, 
won’t you ? I know,” she added, “ my cousin would wish 
it.” 

But in the animated talk that followed there underlay all 
other thoughts the remembrance of Marmaduke’s earnest 
trembling voice saying to her : “ Hilda, you will understand 
it is for Madge’s sake 


CHAPTER X. 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 

Mrs. Hurstmonceaux was sitting in her drawing-room 
on Thursday morning and her only companion was Mr. 
Fieldes. 

“ Is she coming here to-day ? ” he asked in an anxious 
voice. 

“ Yes.” Mrs. Hurstmonceaux smiled at a splendid Gloire 
de Dijon in her hand. 

Fieldes leant upon the mantelpiece. This was a favourite 
attitude of his, and he thought it particularly suited to an 
appearance of admiration and yet sufficient self-assertion 
in looking at a woman. Fieldes had at one time been 
sentimentally attracted by the elder lady’s not immediately 
apparent but very real charm ; and this it was in him that 
had partly appealed to her, though she knew enough of 
human nature to recognise that he possessed a very large 
faculty for being smitten. That this weakness, however, 
was of no depth was evinced by her helping him to make 
his way with Hilda. 

“ Do you think it would be safe to do it now ? ” As he 
spoke he pushed his hair off his temples in a nervous 
manner, and then remembered to smooth a favourite lock 
back into its right curve on the forehead. 

“What are you afraid of?” asked Mrs. Hurstmonceaux 
mercilessly. “ Is it the cousin ? ” 

“ No, it isn’t only the cousin. This is the danger. She 
thinks, you know, that she is going to make me a Catholic, 

(240) 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 241 

and I’m not at all sure that she will have me if she gives up 
that hope.” 

“ But why should she give up her ridiculous hope ? My 
dear Mark, leave it all very vague, or, if you like, promise to 
give it your best consideration. Once you are engaged I 
think she will stfck to you ; and you won’t mind giving her 
any number of ‘ the conditions,’ as they call them. I 
believe you would wish her to keep up her religion thoroughly. 
For myself I must say the Catholics who don’t are very 
unattractive people.” 

“ But hadn’t I better wait and make my way with her 
first ? You know I should be horribly upset now if I lost 
her — she is quite too charming.” 

“No,” said Laura after a moment’s thought, “no, em- 
phatically no. There is nothing that need distress your 
vanity in my opinion that it is now or never. She is 
interested in you now, excited by your attentions, and, most 
important of all, she is piqued with her cousin who is not a 
cousin. Do not be angry if I say so much. Reflect how 
natural it is that those two should be brought together. Let 
her see a little more of life, and she will learn the value of 
his position. Let her leave London, and all home influences 
are brought to bear in his favour. He is young, good-look- 
ing, virtuous, manly, an eldest son and a Catholic. Is it 
likely that she will resist ? And if he is not intellectual — 
what is so easy to suppress in a girl as the small amount 
of thought that generally interferes with her instincts ? ” 

“ You make it evidently, obviously hopeless,” said Fieldes 
sulkily. 

“ Not at all ; I am still hopeful. I am almost of opinion 
that the iron is hot, and I own I think it is no small triumph 
for you.” 

There was a touch of the feminine love of inflicting mixed 
sensations in these words, the feminine satisfaction in social 
tyranny. They brought so vividly to both their minds the 

16 


242 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


fact that Fieldes could not bear comparison with the advan- 
tages that had been ascribed to Marmaduke. 

“To carry off the heiress, though a Catholic, and a most 
beautiful heiress too, will be a triumph. You will have 
done it in a way to be proud of, by your great gifts and 
your specially great gift of sympathy. And, Mark, you are 
wonderfully lucky, for it is a most loyal nature. Conscience,” 
cried Laura, with kindling eye, “ is her king. You need 
never fear. Supposing — for we must be frank — that she 
does deceive herself and that the handsome not-a-cousin 
has more hold than we suppose, once she is bound to you, 
you are safe. But you must be going now for fear she should 
come in, and I don’t want her to find you here.” 

Laura held out her hand with a gracious smile and he 
had to rise. He hesitated, and fidgeted with his hat. 

“ Do you mean you would really do it at once ? ” 

“ At the next good opportunity.” 

“ And how am I to know which is a good opportunity ? ” 

Laura kept her gravity. He needed soothing. 

“ My dear friend, you have managed admirably so far, 
why lose nerve now ? And now go you must, for it is past 
eleven and you will certainly meet her if you stay.” 

Mark after one or two more inarticulate attempts at words 
got himself away. 

Ten minutes later Hilda appeared. She too needed sooth- 
ing this morning when she succeeded Mark in Laura’s 
drawing-room. This morning had seemed to confirm the 
effect of all Cecilia’s suggestions about Madge and Marma- 
duke. Madge had been extremely cross and in very low 
spirits at breakfast. Hilda had been glad to escape to her 
own room. When she was ready to walk to Laura’s she 
had gone back to the drawing-room and had found Madge 
in tears talking to Marmaduke. 

Marmaduke’s dark face was manifestly troubled ; he 
remained silent after one glance as if to remind Madge of 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 


243 


Hilda’s presence, a glance which seemed plainly to say to 
Hilda that she was in the way. As she was leaving the 
room, after telling Madge in a rather high voice that she 
must hurry off to Laura, Hilda saw the two reflected in the 
opposite glass. Marmaduke had drawn his low chair a 
little nearer to Madge’s side, and was leaning forward with 
an expression of distress and sympathy not untouched by 
tenderness. 

Laura’s warm greeting and kindly comment on the bright- 
ness of her flushed face were very welcome to Hilda after this. 

They were soon sitting together on or rather in a deep 
cushioned sofa, and half an hour’s conversation on the great 
influence she was exercising on Mr. Mark Fieldes brought 
Hilda into a more peaceful condition. 

In the brief rest she took before dressing for dinner that 
evening, Laura was lying in her boudoir, drowsily thinking, 
when she was annoyed at being disturbed by the footman. 

“ Lord Bellasis wishes to see you.” It was a quarter 
past seven, a most inconvenient moment. “ They told 
his lordship that you were resting ; but he said he hoped you 
would be able to come all the same.” 

Mrs. Hurstmonceaux was in a very handsome dressing- 
gown, and whatever art was employed to add to those 
charms which nature had bestowed upon her, it was not of 
the kind that could be surprised in an unguarded moment. 
This served her now; for in an instant Lord Bellasis had 
run upstairs, and was speaking through the door. 

“ May I come in ? ” 

“ Certainly, I only hesitated as to giving you the trouble 
of coming up.” 

Laura opened the door as she spoke. A magnificent fur 
cloak had been thrown over the dressing-gown. The slight 
untidiness of the hair was an improvement on its usual 
almost too correct condition. Her dark but rather inanimate 
eyes seemed to have some light in their dull depths. 


244 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“Well,” she said, with a slow smile, “ to what may I owe 
this morning call ? ” 

Bellasis had walked across to the fireplace ; he did not 
seem to have discovered that he was not in the drawing- 
room. He was in evening dress, rather untidy in its details. 
It did not suit his great muscular form. No man less spoilt 
than Bellasis would have ventured to be so careless as to 
appearance as he was ; but then perhaps he knew that some 
women said that he could not look anything but grand and 
noble, and so what did it matter ? Laura was familiar 
enough with his very sunburnt face to detect some annoy- 
ance, though the regular heavy features would have shown 
nothing to most of his friends. People said that you never 
knew whether Bellasis was pleased or angry. 

“ I came to see how you were getting on,” he said slowly, 
and stooping to pick up the poker. “ What a wretched fire ! ” 

“ Did you reflect upon the fact that it is the usual hour 
for dressing for dinner ? ” 

“ You were going to dine with the Stapletons ? ” 

“ I am going to dine with the Stapletons.” 

“ No, you are not, because the party has fallen through. 
The clairvoyante could not come ; she is ill. I told Lady 
Stapleton that it was no use dining if the woman could not 
come, or at least I said something to that effect.” 

“ But why hasn’t Lady Stapleton written to me then ? ” 
said Laura. 

“ Because I undertook to tell you, and Cecilia undertook 
to tell Mrs. George Riversdale, who was coming it seems ; 
and Lady Stapleton sent notes to the others. I think she 
is rather cross, and thinks we ought to have dined there ; 
but you see you have a better cook.” 

Laura started. Her face changed. 

“ But, my dear Lord Bellasis, you can’t dine here. The 
cook won’t have time. You will have a horrid dinner, and 
then you will ruin her reputation.” 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 


245 


“ I swear to you I won’t,” said Bellasis earnestly. “ I’m 
sure you can depend upon the woman. Let us see,” and 
he took out his watch, “ half-past seven — say we dine at 
a quarter to nine. Let her make that tete de veau d la 
vinaigrette we had the other night. I assure you I 
wouldn’t worry. These impromptu things often do best.” 

Laura yielded, rang, and ordered whatever the cook could 
do in the time. “ Though I know she will give warning,” 
she added. 

“ If she does I shall take her,” said Bellasis thoughtfully. 

“ Now,” said Laura, softened by this piece of flattery, 
“ suppose you go away. I will dress and then we will go 
downstairs.” 

“ But this is comfortable, and that cloak suits you 
wonderfully. Couldn’t you dine in it ? Though perhaps 
it would look a little, — what shall we say, — eccentric down- 
stairs. No, I will give you time to dress, though it is a 
pity you should ; but first let us talk.” 

Laura sat down at a little distance. 

“ You are the most spoilt man I know,” she thought, 
‘‘ and so the only way to manage you is to spoil you even 
more than you are accustomed to be spoilt ; but your wife 
will have a time of it, for you have a nasty temper too. I 
am almost afraid of you myself. I wonder what you have 
come here to say.” 

Bellasis had apparently become quite absent minded, and 
seemed to find sufficient occupation in looking at the photo- 
graphs on the chimneypiece. 

“You have never seen this clairvoyante ? I wish you 
had been at the B.’s when Cecilia consulted her. I should 
like to know if you think her a fraud.” 

“ What did she say to Cecilia ? ” 

“ Cecilia wouldn’t tell, but she came out shaking and very 
white, and then of course she talked all sorts of nonsense 
about the magnificent things the woman had promised her ; 


246 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


but yesterday when I got her alone she told me that the 
woman had been very strange. She had told her that she 
knew her heart was fixed on a great happiness and that she 
thought she would attain it, but that if she did not — ‘ If you 
do fail,’ she said, ‘you will die an early and miserable 
death 

“ And Cecilia dared to invent that,” thought Laura to 
herself. But aloud she exclaimed : “ What ridiculous 
nonsense, isn’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Bellasis, “ I talked to the woman 
myself, and she said exactly the same to me about Cecilia. 
I know Cecilia is candour itself, but I thought she might 
have been overstrung and put her own imagination into it. 
It’s queer anyhow. But you must not breathe a word of 
it. I should not have said so much to you only I know 
you are as secret as the grave.” 

“ And when did you see the clairvoyante ? ” 

“ Yesterday, at her own house. I went to tell her that 
she must be ill to-day and not go to Lady Stapleton ; she 
was thankful to be paid for an evening’s rest.” 

“ And why was she not to go to Lady Stapleton’s may I 
ask ? ” 

“ Oh, the whole thing was a bore, and I could not get out 

of it any other way. And ” he paused and turning to 

look straight at Laura added, “ I did not want to meet 
Madge.” 

Bellasis was calm ; but there were in his face the un- 
mistakable signs of pain. 

“ Until she has made up her mind to overcome these 
absurd scruples ? ” asked Laura in a suggestive tone. 

“ Scruples ! ” said Bellasis bitterly. “ I am not sure that 
Madge and scruples go well together.” 

“ Poor child,” said Laura feelingly, “ the world does not 
understand such things.” 

“ Am I the world ? ” said Lord Bellasis, as if the idea were 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 


247 


too ridiculous. “No, what an ordinary man can’t under- 
stand is what she is about. Mind I should not be surprised 
if she were a devotee, living out of the world, or even of the 
very strict good sort like some of the religious people. But 
for Madge — well, we all know Madge.” His voice softened, 
and he breathed a little hard. 

“ Is it likely that Madge should have this overstrained 
ridiculous idea which would befit a nun ? ” 

“Well, but if it is forbidden by her religion to marry 
under the circumstances ? ” 

“ If only I could think that were it. But I am beginning 
to doubt whether it is religion. From what I can learn 
she is not keeping up her religion at all. If she really 
cared about it, she would be constantly seeing the priests, 
and she would be quoting Father this and Father that to 
you all the time. But that is not all. There are other 
things — very serious things as I can’t help seeing. You 
must I think allow that a young cousin of her husband’s 
is not her best possible companion, as he is in love with 
her. It appears to be an old story, and she cared for him 
before she ever married George Riversdale.” 

Lord Bellasis paused with knit brows, and then con- 
tinued : — 

“ The cousin is there incessantly, and takes the host’s 
place when she entertains. That pretty child who lives 
with her is evidently in love with him and jealous of 
Madge.” 

“ Stop,” cried Laura, “ stop ; these are too many assertions 
already for one sentence. For one thing, I can assure you 
that the pretty child, if you mean Hilda Riversdale, is likely 
to be Mrs. Mark Fieldes before long — and I certainly never 
heard that young Lemarchant was at any time in love with 
Madge. The whole idea is new to me. How did you hear 
it ? ” 

“ It comes from Mark Fieldes for one,” said Bellasis. 


248 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Laura was for a moment disconcerted — she had felt sure 
he would say Cecilia. 

“ And Fieldes told you this ? ” 

A deep flush of red mounted in Bellasis’s face, and his 
grey eyes looked light and angry under his puckered forehead. 
Laura was a little frightened. Bellasis was silent. 

“ I beg your pardon, of course I did not mean that ; I 
mean,” said Laura hesitating, “ how do you know that 
Mark Fieldes said all this ? ” 

“ Tim heard him talking of it at the Reform, and Tim 
thinks he is right. Tim was dining with Madge one night, 
and Lemarchant was there as usual. There was something 
caught fire, and her gown caught. Lemarchant put it out, 
and Tim says he could see that he was in love with her. 
He mooned on in the house, though his hands must have 
been agony. Cecilia said to Tim at the time, ‘ Did you ever 
see a man more in love ? ’ ” 

Mrs. Hurstmonceaux gave a deep sigh full of meaning at 
Cecilia’s name. 

“Yes, I know you don’t like Cecilia, but no one has ever 
said she was anything but frank and open.” 

“ Can’t you see ? ” cried Laura impatiently, “ that he is 
in love with Hilda ? ” 

“And so burnt his hands for Madge?” said Bellasis 
ironically. “ Besides is it likely that this girl should refuse 
him if he is ? You say she will marry Fieldes, a man from 
nowhere, and hardly a man at all, a sort of producer of clever 
essays, no money, no manners, no looks ; and the other, 
yes,” said Bellasis, with a quiet smile, “ the other is a goodly 
young man, handsome and well-groomed,” he looked down 
at himself and shrugged his shoulders, “ all that is wanting 
to many of us, and quite a sufficiency of acres. Cecilia 
says that this Hilda is thoroughly in love with him and 
very jealous of Madge, although she is too young and too 
ingenue to understand much. Don’t mistake me. Nobody 


TWO LOVERS CONFIDE IN LAURA. 


249 


suspects anything in the least wrong ; they are both far too 
good for that,’* his voice became sarcastic. “ Only you 
know, or you don’t know,” he looked bitterly at Laura, 
“ that once when I loved a girl, — it was after my matrimonial 
incident, — I found that she was quite willing to marry me, 
most willing, but, as it came out, there was an objection, in 
her eyes of no consequence, that she loved somebody else 
who provokingly enough did not own Bellasis Castle. I 
thought I should never recover from that business. Now, 
as you know, I have recovered. But you must forgive me if 
I am a little anxious — a little suspicious. Mind I could 
almost have been happier now if she had told you at once 
that I was to think no more about her. If she really had 
this strong religious objection, she would have refused me 
definitely at once ; but she does not. Am I very mean for 
thinking that possibly these magnificent scruples are a 
pretext to cover an indecision due to other motives ? She 
wants to give herself time to choose between us, — between 
love and wealth. It is an old story.” 

Laura for a moment kept a startled silence. Cecilia’s 
influence had been stronger than she had expected ; and she 
was much puzzled to find that Mark, for whom she was doing 
so njuch, was busy making mischief. Bellasis watched her, 
and saw that she hesitated. 

“You own that this state of things is discouraging? ” he 
said. 

“ Not in the least,” said Laura, gathering her forces, “ but 
I gather that the rumours have been more complicated than I 
supposed. I saw that Hilda Riversdale was being made use 
of in some way, but I did not know in what way. As I said 
just now, Mr. Lemarchant is in love with her, and with no- 
body else. But, after all. Lord Bellasis, it is not for counter- 
assertions that you have come here. And I do not wish to 
enter the arena with people who are imagining or repeating 
foolish stories, any more than you do. You want definite 


250 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


proof of her love for you, and I own that so do I. The time 
has come for Madge to make up her mind. She has given 
no sign of life, though quite three weeks have passed since 
I put the question plainly before her. She ought to answer, 
and she must. But if she will not answer me — and I will 
make one more trial — let there be an end to all this,” a faint 
flush rose to her cheek ; “ I shall have done a friend’s duty, 
and no more, both to Madge and to you ; you must manage 
the rest for yourselves. No, no, don’t thank me, I don’t 
mean that ; but I want you to feel that, for both your sakes, 
it would only be wrong of me to continue to be what is called 
* a mutual friend,’ if she does not make up her mind.” 

This was said with quiet dignity, and Bellasis understood 
in all simplicity that Laura had laid him under obligations 
as a man and as a gentleman, whether she should be 
successful or not. Then the approach of the impromptu 
dinner was announced by the dressing - bell, and Bellasis 
could no longer keep Laura from dressing. 

The meal was as successful as he had predicted, but Laura 
did not enjoy it, although she had never been more agreeable. 
She was anxious and worried. She foresaw that the same 
topic, which she had merely staved off for the moment, must 
come up again, and she hardly knew what line to take. If 
Madge were going to be a fool, it would be so much better to 
have done with her at once. If Laura could only keep off 
the subject for that evening. 


CHAPTER XL 


OPPORTUNITY. 

When Mrs. Hurstmonceaux and Lord Bellasis had finished 
their coffee and he had refused to smoke, they went slowly 
upstairs, pausing once or twice to look at some of the 
queer art treasures she had picked up abroad. A holy 
water stoup of Della Robbia ware made them linger at the 
door. While speaking of it they entered the room, without 
seeing that there was somebody already in it. Suddenly 
Laura stopped and looked entirely bewildered ; at the other 
end of the long narrow room, leaning back in a low arm-chair 
behind the screen, lay a little person in white satin. For 
a second the figure was motionless, then, leaning forward, 
Madge showed a face intensely white, with frightened 
eyes. 

“ Laura,” she cried, trying to rise, and sinking back, “ I 
thought you were sure to be alone. I never thought of 
asking. I was going to the Rivers’ squash, and I felt faint : 
and I was passing here, and I knew you had been stopped 
going out to dinner so I thought I might come to you.” 

“Poor child,” cried Laura, leaning over her, “you must 
have something at once.” 

“ Champagne,” said Lord Bellasis decidedly. He had 
stood in an awkward, embarrassed attitude in the middle of 
the room. 

“ No, no,” said Madge in a weak voice, “ but if you have 
any sal volatile, Laura.” 

“ Of course,” said Laura in a business-like way, “ Pll 

(251) 


252 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


fetch it at once ; will you have it hot or cold ? ” and Madge 
could only murmur “ hot ” before Laura had vanished. 

The embarrassment of Lord Bellasis redoubled. He moved 
forward, and taking a large crystal bottle of salts from the 
table offered it to Madge. She took a long breath, and then 
said in a weak childish voice : — 

“ I’m sorry 

“ What for ? ” said Bellasis shyly. 

“ That I’ve come here — you didn’t want to meet me.” 

“ Good heavens,” cried the much distressed man, and 
Madge leant back with her eyes shut. One white hand 
held the bottle on her knee, the other lay listlessly beside it. 

“ Why,” she cried, opening her eyes, and with a little sob, 
““ why don’t you like to see me ? ” 

The big figure beside her writhed with discomfort. 

“ Why,” he said, “ did you never answer me ? ” the words 
were jerked out harshly. 

Madge began to cry. In another moment he was kneeling 
beside her chair. 

“ Don’t, don’t,” he cried helplessly. 

“ How could I send you a message by her ? ” sobbed 
Madge; “I thought you would speak to me yourself if — 
if ” 

“ If what ? ” cried Bellasis with intense anxiety. 

“ If you really cared, and if,” she hurried on now, “ and 
if you didn’t care — not very much — I didn’t know what to 
say.” 

She covered her face with her hands, and her whole frame 
trembled so that he could feel the chair shaking. 

“ God knows if I care,” cried the deep voice passionately. 

“ But,” persisted Madge, still in her child’s tone, ‘^then 
why didn’t you speak yourself? ” 

“ Oh, my darling,” cried Bellasis, leaning over her, “ I 
meant it well. I thought it more honourable. I couldn’t trust 
myself not to try and overpower you : and since Jhen: — but,” 


OPPORTUNITY. 253 

he cried joyfully, “ never mind since then. Can you love 
me, darling ? Love me, though I am a fool.” 

He seized her cold hand and kissed it passionately. She 
put it with a touch, as if a caress, on the bearded chin, smiled, 
and opened her eyes. They fell on the flushed eager face 
and earnest eyes of the man kneeling by her. But the smile 
began to fade in an instant ; her head dropped on one side. 
Madge had fainted. Bellasis leant forward, kissed the cold 
forehead devoutly, sprang up, and rushed to the door. Laura 
met him carrying the sal volatile. 

“ Brandy,” he cried, “ and quickly. That is no use ; get 
something hot for her feet — quick — but, no, let me fetch it ; 
undo her things, — you know what to do,” he rushed down- 
stairs and terrifled the butler. 

When he came back with the brandy, he found Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux and her maid placing the unconscious figure 
on the sofa. They tried to force brandy between the lips, 
but failed. Bellasis’s face expressed intolerable anguish. 

“ A doctor,” he said, “ a doctor would be best.” 

“ Yes,” said Laura, “ I will send.” 

“ Let me go,” he cried ; and then a little proudly, “ I have 
the right to go.” 

Laura gave him a look of sympathy as he hurried away. 

An hour later, when Madge had been put to bed, and the 
doctor had relieved them of anxiety, Laura left her with the 
maid and went down to the drawing-room. Bellasis was 
standing looking at the chair where Madge had lain. 

“ There is not the least cause for anxiety,” said Laura. 

“ I caught Dr. Rule as he came down and he told me she 
was all right,” answered Bellasis ; then lifting Laura’s 
hand he kissed it with a courtly gesture. “ I won’t thank 
you to-night,” he said. “ Did she — did she say anything ? ” 

“ She whispered that I was to give you her love, and to 
ask you not to tell anybody yet.” 

“ Of course not. But why, why did she faint ? ” 


254 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ She has strong feelings,” said Laura, “ and it was the 
relief from a great strain. When I left her she was sleeping 
like a child.” 

Laura did not add that Dr. Rule had given a dose of 
morphia to secure such a complete rest as the patient 
needed. 

It was then decided that Lord Bellasis should breakfast 
with Mr. Hurstmonceaux next morning. He was obliged, 
as Laura knew, to go down to Bellasis in the afternoon for 
some local business. “ But that leaves me three hours, if 
you don’t mind,” he concluded. 

After he had gone, Laura sank down on a chair to give 
way to her excitement. The engagement had actually taken 
place in her house. It could not have been done better if 
she had planned it herself. And the world would give her 
the credit of having done it. Then her thoughts dwelt on cer- 
tain centres, on certain individuals hearing the news ; on the 
paragraphs ; on the way the Duchess of A. would say, “ So 
after all it did happen at Mrs. Hurstmonceaux’,” and sigh a 
little for her own daughter that there were not more men to 
be had like Lord Bellasis. 

“ There’s not ^n engagement in England except a royal 
one that would excite so much attention,” murmured Laura 
ecstatically, “ and it came off at the Hurstmonceaux’.” 

“ Could she have known he was here ? ” wondered Laura, 
who unconsciously almost regretted in the interests of art 
that it should have ended so simply. Still she was not 
without employment. “ One must tide them through the 
engagement now,” she thought. “ A little mystery and 
secrecy will help. If only he can keep it from Cecilia for a 
time. She might do anything : she might make public the 
impediment, and how unpleasant that would be. I suppose 
that is still the cause of Madge’s excitement. I should 
never have thought her scruple would have died so hard. 
How Romanism clings to these shallow little people ! It 


OPPORTUNITY. 


255 


must be a short engagement. Her agitation looked like 
enough to love to-night, and yet — ” Laura shrugged her 
shoulders expressively, “ strange if the thing he hankered 
for he should have missed by a shave, almost a chance. If 
he had not met Madge to-night — who knows ? However, 
a wife who adores a man in that wild way is a doubtful 
advantage.” 

Next morning Lord Bellasis and Mr. Hurstmonceaux, 
after a brief, “ Congratulations allowed ? ” on the one side, 
and a friendly nod on the other, ate a big breakfast and 
talked of the political situation. Laura did not appear till 
nearly eleven. She had sent a little note to the visitor, 
giving a good account of Madge, but saying that she was 
still asleep and must not be woke. 

“ My dear friend,” she said, sweeping into the library, 
^‘good morning; you don’t want me, I know, but you’ll 
have to put up with me for a time.” 

Laura when she tried to be skittish bored Bellasis ; and 
if Madge wasn’t really ill he didn’t see why she was not 
ready to see him by this time. However, there was enough 
to talk of, and Laura led him on skilfully to speak of him- 
self. She could not but admire how absolutely satisfied and 
happy he had become ; how his fears had vanished ; how 
Marmaduke and Cecilia were completely forgotten. He 
quite prattled of the future, of what Madge would like, asked 
anxiously if Laura thought Madge really enjoyed yachting, 
and consulted her as to where he could have the family 
diamond tiara reset to fit Madge’s tiny head. Still in the 
end Laura regretted to find that he and Madge would still 
have an hour to themselves, but it could not be helped. He 
was fidgeting again and looked indignant, so Laura yielded. 

“ I will go and put her on the sofa in my boudoir,” she 
said, “ and in five minutes you may come up.” 

But there was nothing for Laura to regret in that hour. 
Madge was in a mood of elation, of triumph. The blank of 


256 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


unconsciousness, the dulness of the morphia, seemed to 
have wiped out all that she did not wish to think of. When 
the big-framed man knelt by her again, she was not afraid 
or oppressed. She put her hand on his hair, she let him do 
what he liked with it ; she told him that she had always 
been afraid of him ; she teased him and petted him with a 
light touch of pride and power that fascinated him. It was 
to her literally the world at her feet at last ; she could pet 
and punish this king of the society whose notice she had 
been ambitious to possess but a year before. He wanted to 
give her presents at once, but she would not have them. 
“ Don’t be King Cophetua too soon,” she said ; and that 
completed the fascination. She was quite definite, however, 
about plans. He must keep his engagements in the North 
even though they extended over a fortnight, but when he 
insisted she said he might come up and meet her at Laura’s 
once in about a week. His voice growled a little over this. 
A tear trembled in Madge’s eye. 

“You see,” she said in her weak voice, like the last 
night’s a childish one, “ I shall be worried and teased by 
the priests and people when they find you are not a Catholic.” 
She looked away as she spoke. 

“Then why not marry at once?” he inquired, “and go 
for a cruise in the yacht ? ” 

Madge shut her eyes as if in weary protest. 

“ But you don’t want a grand wedding ? ” he asked rather 
roughly. 

“ No, indeed,” sighed Madge : then with a little gulp in her 
voice, “ let it be quite private.” 

“ Well, I’ll do as you like and go away, but you will marry 
me in three weeks.” 

He spoke with such decision that he thought he had over- 
powered her, but this was exactly what she wanted him to 
say. 

“ Then,’^ he went on, “ not a soul shall know, and when 


OPPORTUNITY. 


257 


I come back in a fortnight — I don’t count the one evening I 
must have in the middle — we will say we are engaged, and 
then as soon as it is known, we will slip off and be married 
with the Hurstmonceaux’ for witnesses. You shan’t be 
worried, little woman.” 

“ It would be kinder not to tell Cecilia,” whispered Madge,, 
as he was leaning over to say good-bye. 

“ Don’t bother your little head about Cecilia, she shall 
know nothing, but she doesn’t deserve much kindness at. 
your hands.” 




17 


I 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ RABBONI,” 

The great drawing-room at Skipton never varied much in 
appearance. When the family were alone there were rather 
fewer nosegays of brilliant flowers in the centres of the big 
tables, but there were as many oil lamps and as many wax 
candles for Mr. and Mrs. Riversdale and Mary as for their 
visitors. Nor were these lights fed on paraffin oil or com- 
position candles — economy was as little known as luxury 
at Skipton — pure colza and fine wax lit up its large, dig- 
nified, unbeautiful apartments. There, nearly a fortnight 
after Madge’s engagement to Lord Bellasis, Mr. Riversdale 
was sitting with Mary, after his wife and the household 
had gone to bed, with the exception of the butler who was 
waiting in the pantry to put out the lights when thfe master 
had retired. Mr. Riversdale was sitting in a large arm- 
chair near the fire, looking at the burning coals in silence. 
Mary was on a low seat by his side with oiie hand resting 
on the arm of his chair. 

There seemed to be a tired absence of thought in the old 
facei;' an anxiety that was latent, not active at the moment, 
was its most marked expression. In these few weeks Mary 
had grown thinner, her eyes seemed larger, her features 
more defined. She had something of the appearance of a 
convalescent ; sh£, looked older, as she might have done 
after a long an^ Jangerous illness ; but there was also the 
suggestion of life, of new power, of the subtle promise 
of health and strength that makes the contrast between 

(258) 

I' 


“RABBONI.” 259 

youth and age greater in convalescence than in times of 
normal health. 

But Mary had not been ill. None of the loving eyes 
about her had detected any signs of bad health during the 
winter. She had hunted as much if not more than ever. 
Indeed her father had seldom been seen anywhere with- 
out her; and it had been a joke among his dependants 
to say that they wondered the squire didn’t take Miss 
Mary with him to the bench. She had been as cheer- 
ful and as bright as ever. Her spirits were still called 
wonderful by many a tired cottage mother or worn old 
labourer. Yet a change there had been, if it was only in 
the rapid deepening of familiar lines of character. There 
was more gentleness in her voice, more tenderness in her 
face. She was more drawn to the babies now than ever, 
and would look at them with a surprised awe-struck tender- 
ness in her blue eyes. There was more of reverence in her 
manner with the aged, the ill or the suffering. One small 
trouble her mother used to feel with her had passed — she 
no longer disliked the society that came and went at Skipton. 
She was no longer shy with young men, nor did she look 
awkward or bored when she had to undergo her share of 
teasing from older friends as to a girl’s tastes or a girl’s 
prospects. But when her mother spoke of these things to 
her father with approval, he never assented with any pleasure. 
He was fretful on the subject of Mary. 

“ Improved ? I don’t see what you mean. Her voice 
softer ? I never heard that it was too loud,” his own voice 
rose as he spoke ; “ gets on so well with visitors ? — what 
does that matter ? — nonsense, nonsense. What do you say ? 
That the change came soon after Madge’s visit ? She was 
cross while Madge was here I know, but she has just been 
her old self since, nothing else.” 

His wife had not seen him so angry for a long time ; and 
she, poor soul, had her own unacknowledged fears, her own 


26 o 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


trembling over the girl who was growing so rapidly more 
beautiful, more gentle, more tender, more entirely lovable 
than ever to the mother’s eyes. And Mr. Riversdale was 
sometimes testy with Mary herself — and in such a new way, 
for such strange reasons. One day in Lent he noticed that 
she ate no vegetables or pudding, only the joint or fish at 
luncheon and dinner — another time it struck him that she 
was never to be seen now lounging in a comfortable chair. 
Then he became irritably conscious of her perpetual un- 
selfishness. He could not make sure what it was she 
enjoyed and what she disliked. If her eyes sparkled and 
her face was bright at the question of a day’s hunting, it 
seemed almost equally bright when doing any service for 
her mother, even when asked to tidy the cupboards in the 
old schoolroom. She had actually become careful enough 
in her dress to satisfy her mother. Then she prayed so 
much ; though a year ago her father had often had to 
remind her of some devotion which she would otherwise 
have forgotten, or to scold her gently for not being up in 
time for Mass in the morning. Now Mary never forgot 
her prayers and was never late in the morning. 

Two or three times lately, after Mary had been generally 
supposed to be in bed, the squire had waited about in the 
cold passage until he had made sure that what he feared was 
true, that Mary was in the chapel for nearly an hour after the 
others had gone to bed. He would shrink back into his room 
and listen while the loved footsteps passed gently along, and 
Mary found her way in the dark to her room. And always 
as he came out of his own door he could not help seeing 
the Flemish picture of his great-great-aunt who had lived 
and died in the convent beyond the seas. Mr. Riversdale 
hated that picture. One day to his wife’s astonishment 
she found that he had told the housemaid to hang it in one 
of the spare rooms. The squire had never been known to 
give an order to a housemaid before. It was most uncon- 


“ RABBONI.” 


261 


stitutional. Yet the mistress of the house asked for no 
explanation and did not appear to know that the picture 
was no longer in sight when she left her bedroom. 

At length there had corne an outward sign of a change, 
a step forward which could not be ignored. The ball which 
had been put off, as we saw at the opening of this story, on 
account of the death of a local magnate, was now fixed to 
take place in Easter week. On the morning on which Mrs. 
Riversdale had received a card for herself and party she 
had begun to discuss whom she should invite to stay in the 
house as usual for the event. Mary had joined in the talk 
so far, but when her mother asked her to come to her room 
to see if the ball gown which had been prepared in January 
could be trimmed with spring flowers, Mary had told them 
in a low voice that she thought she would rather not go to 
the ball. After that she had flushed deeply and left the 
room ; the father and mother were quite silent. Then 
Mr. Riversdale spoke hurriedly : — 

“ She isn’t well,” he said, “ that’s what it is ; we must 
take her to London. She mopes in this horrid old place. 
She must have a season. She must be presented. That’s 
all she wants. Never mind the money, we will take a house 
in London.” He gathered his letters together as he spoke, 
and his hand shook. She, poor, big, flabby lady with her 
narrow mind and slow sensations, seemed to be frightened 
and bewildered only ; but she knew far better than he could 
allow himself to do what was passing in his mind, and 
what it was that made the incoherent muttering of patent 
untruths seem almost like a comfort to him. 

That day he had to sit on the bench, and the distraction 
and the business of the town were a relief. He was a power 
on that bench. Not that he was eloquent : he adhered with- 
out knowing it to the famous rule, never to give a reason 
for his decisions, he could not in fact have explained himself 
if he had tried. He had a firm line of his own in interpreting 


262 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


justice ; and his reverence for the good old laws and customs 
of rural England did not prevent his modifying the traditions 
of the bench very considerably. He shrank from innovations. 
He would not have smiled on the Society for the Prevention 
of Cruelty to Children. He would have considered heresy 
against the game laws very dire heresy indeed. But the man 
who had kicked or starved his children knew that he would 
get all the punishment Squire Riversdale could give him, 
even to the stretching of the law ; while the gamekeepers 
thought him almost dangerously lax. 

As he was riding home to Skipton after a day’s justicing 
he heard his name called from the other side of a tall hedge 
and a wide ditch, and saw a young man he knew, walking 
along the field adjoining the road. 

“ Holla, Charlie ! ” answered the squire. “ I didn’t see 
you. Having a walk about your fields, eh ? ” 

“ Another farm on my hands. Cousin George,” said the 
youth cheerily, “ but won't you come across and see mother 
now you are so near ? ” 

“ No, thank you, Charlie, I must be getting home. Mary 
wants to go and see about some cottage ; a nice life she 
leads the agent, that girl. But won’t you come along with 
me ? ” 

Charlie’s face beamed. 

"Delighted, Cousin George,” he said, and they then 
began to talk farming, using terms that they would have 
thought alarmingly scientific on any other subject. Their 
talk so far had ^een shouted rather than spoken, but a tall 
gate and a bridge across the ditch before long became visible. 
Charlie vaulted lightly over and was soon walking beside 
Riversdale’s horse. He was a tall, well-built youth of open 
countenance, a distant cousin of the Riversdales, and a 
favourite with the squire. The chief unspoken bond between 
the two men was Mary : but there was much besides in 
common between them — what Miss Austen would have 


“RABBONI.” 263 

described as a sense of mutual worth ; their entire honesty 
and singleness of purpose ; a certain slowness of intellect 
and a shrinking from public life perhaps completing their 
sympathy. 

It was as they neared the hall that Charlie unconsciously 
took up the thread of the dreaded subject which was to make 
that so memorable a day at Skipton. 

“So the hunt ball is to be after all,” he said. “Are you 
going to take a party from Skipton ? ” 

“ I think so,” said the squire. 

“ Anyhow, Mrs. Riversdale and Mary will come ? ” said 
Charlie anxiously, alarmed at the doubt in the squire’s voice. 
There was a few moments’ silence. 

“ Mary does not want to go,” said her father, and he 
looked away and began to whistle. Charlie stopped short 
in the road, the squire’s horse went slowly on. Charlie 
looked at the old man’s shoulders, it struck him for the first 
time that Mr. Riversdale had begun to look old and shrunken. 
He did not seem to know that Charlie had fallen behind 
him, and so they went on slowly in silence. When inside 
the Skipton gates they met a groom, and the squire dis- 
mounting gave him his horse and walked across the park 
with his cousin. 

Not long afterwards they spoke to each other about that 
silent walk. 

“ I was only feeling for myself, trying not to see what 
things meant,” the old man said. “ It was hard on you.” 

“ I had never had any hope,” said the younger man, and 
he turned his boyish face away to hide the tears. But the 
squire did not tell him, indeed could not have analysed had 
he tried to do so, why it was that the company of the fair, 
tall youth had been especially trying to him that day. 

“ It was hard,” repeated the squire, “ but how came you 
to understand ? I did not understand it myself.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Charlie, “ but I must really have 


264 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


been expecting it, though I did not know I was. It came 
to me suddenly and yet it did not seem new.” 

That was three days afterwards. But the day on which 
they walked so silently across the park has still to be finished 
as it had then to be lived through. Charlie had his tea with 
Mr. and Mrs. Riversdale and Mary in the drawing-room, and 
then in the spring twilight went for a pottering walk with the 
father and daughter. He left them but a short time before 
dinner, and the family trio were alone again. Dinner was a 
silent meal, and then came an almost equally silent hour before 
the bell rang for night prayers at ten o’clock. Then Mr. and 
Mrs. Riversdale and Mary betook themselves upstairs to 
the tribune of the chapel and waited there until the servants 
had filed in below and found their places, the men on one 
side, the women on the other. Somewhat monotonous, 
somewhat old fashioned and pompous sound those morning 
and night prayers of the old Garden of the Soul to modern 
ears, but not one word would the squire have altered. Had 
he not heard them all his life ? had he not wondered in his 
childhood what his father could mean by longing to be “ dis- 
solved ” every night ? there really seemed to be so little in 
common between his father and a lump of sugar. 

So on this night like every other night the squire’s deep 
voice went monotonously on, until the quantum of vocal 
prayer for night in the Garden of the Soul was finished, 
and then the little congregation remained for a few moments 
of silent prayer. At length the servants with the exception 
of one pious footman had gone quietly away, and Mary 
and her father and mother were left alone. Ten minutes 
passed and then Mrs. Riversdale rose and the others fol- 
lowed. It was not yet half-past ten, but Mrs. Riversdale 
liked to go to bed early, while her husband and Mary always 
enjoyed nearly an hour of talk and draughts in the drawing- 
room after night prayers. As usual therefore Mrs. Riversdale 
kissed Mary and bade her good-night at the top of the front 


RABBONI.” 


265 


stairs that led down into the hall, but to-night she forgot to 
give her usual caution not to stay up too late. As the father 
and daughter walked down the broad shallow steps she stood 
for a moment watching them, then she went slowly and 
heavily to her own room. She did not know that she wished 
it to be otherwise, but as she went slowly along the passage 
she thought of the baby days when Mary had seemed almost 
wholly to belong to her, when her husband had been too 
awkward to hold the rounded little figure, and the baby had 
laughed triumphantly in its sense of security when it was 
back in its mother’s arms. 

Mary and her father had then settled themselves as was 
seen at the beginning of this chapter, he in his big arm-chair, 
she on the low seat by his side with one hand on the arm of 
his chair. They were silent, intensely conscious of each 
other’s presence, dreading what might come. At length Mr. 
Riversdale laid a trembling hand on Mary’s and said in an 
almost testy voice ; — 

“ Foolish child, why don’t you want to go to this ball ? ” 

“ Father,” Mary’s voice did not tremble now, “ father, it 
is because I want to be a Sister of Charity.” 

There was silence. Mr. Riversdale took his hand away 
and covered his face ; he did not speak or move. Mary slipped 
down on her knees by his side. “ Father, father,” she cried, 
“ look at me, kiss me, help me, father dear, help me.” She 
put her face against his shoulder and cried freely. 

“ You would leave us ? ” he said slowly, still not moving. 
“ Are you sure you have a vocation ? George has gone, and 
now you go.” 

“Oh! father — don’t, don’t,” cried Mary. “I can’t bear 
it, oh, father, if you knew the pain it has been.” 

“ Has been ! ” he repeated, and he took his hands away 
and looked at her. 

“ Yes, it was leaving you, leaving mother that made it 
seem hard then. I was wicked, father, and I tried not to 


266 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


see it. I had hoped all my life that if I were spoken to I 
should say ‘ Rabboni,’ but I didn’t ” : a look of pain came 
over her face different from the sorrow of those free flowing 
tears. “ Still, He is so good, He will forgive me and take 
me all the same.” 

Her hands were clasped. She was leaning back and her 
look passed from her father to a crucifix that hung above 
his head. 

“ If I am allowed to be a Sister of Charity,” — she 
paused, her face was lit up with a strange light. 

Then he knew that the blow had surely fallen. He looked 
at her beautiful face, he thought he had never known its full 
beauty before. The strange pain of the supernatural was 
upon him, a wild sense of rebellion, of terrible desolation. 
He seemed almost ready to repel her too. Was this cruel 
goodness, this selfish selflessness his own Mary’s ? He 
shrank back ; the look of brightness left her face ; she looked 
at him longingly, looked at him as she had looked as a child 
when afraid of his anger. He felt cruel too. That added to 
his pain. Why make it harder for her ? Harder ! Would 
to heaven he could make it impossible ! His Mary to lead 
a life of sorrow, of poverty, of labour, of suffering ! How 
did they know that she was fit for it, strong enough for it ? 
Why, it might — it might kill her ! But who were the “ they ” ? 
Whose fault was it ? It was not Mary’s. No — it was — yes ! 
it was the fault of — Him who called her. He bent his head. 
Mary was standing now, kissing him, fondling him. She 
had his arm round her ; he too was weeping ; and she could 
hear him whisper in her ear one word — “ Rabhoni ”. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SIDE-LIGHTS FROM CELESTINE. 

Madge had accepted Lord Bellasis without either Marma- 
duke or Hilda perceiving any change which put them on the 
road to discover her secret. Yet Marmaduke believed him- 
self to be doing his best to find out the mysterious danger 
to Madge of which Cecilia had warned him. He came 
dutifully to the house ; he led the talk as near as Madge 
would let him to the question of religion and to any topics 
that might break down her reserve. While he spoke or 
Madge answered he was intensely conscious of every move- 
ment of Hilda's ; or if she was absent he was wondering 
how soon she might come in, and his conversation inevitably 
turned from Madge’s interests to some allusion to Hilda or 
question about her. Not that he found Madge responsive on 
this topic. She had no thought to spare for Hilda or Marma- 
duke or Cecilia, beyond her anxiety as to what they knew and 
what they could mean by the faintest allusion to Lord Bellasis, 
or what they could suspect as to herself. 

Marmaduke in some ways teased her the most. She was 
worried by his constant visits. She would have liked to be 
able to tell Bellasis safely that she saw very little of him. 
For though nobody had hinted to her that he had been used 
as an unconscious means of exciting Lord Bellasis’s sus- 
picions, she had had enough feminine penetration to discover 
a note of jealousy in her masterful lover’s careless tone, when 
he had alluded to the handsome cousin. And, moreover, 
now that the die was cast, the Skipton relatives in general 

(267) 


268 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


were a reminder of the painful wrench which could not long 
be postponed. Yet she dared not shake Marmaduke off at 
present. It was much safer to keep him near her and to 
blind him herself to what was going on, than to let him go 
away. For who knew where a rumour began ? Bellasis 
was so careless in details. Every day — sometimes twice a 
day — a large envelope with B. written in the corner was 
posted by the servants at Bellasis Castle ; and although it 
went straight to Madge’s bedroom and was soon under lock 
and key, who might not notice and report from the other 
end ? 

She felt that the merest piece of gossip or a premature 
paragraph, which Marmaduke would usually be the last man 
to attend to, would now act as a match on a train of gun- 
powder. Marmaduke was in fact hovering on the verge of 
discovery ; and if he had been on terms with Mark Fieldes, 
or less strained in his relations with Hilda, he might have at 
least found out that Lord Bellasis was the hero of the mystery. 
But as it was, Madge and Marmaduke, Mark and Hilda, 
jogged along side by side like so many horses with blinkers, 
looking onwards in front of them at their own aims, and 
seeing4ittle or nothing of all besides. 

But one person at this time, during the fortnight after the 
engagement, knew pretty well the state of things. This 
was Madge’s maid Celestine. Celestine during the autumn 
had been with her mistress at Bellasis Castle, and had 
there contracted a sort of conditional engagement to the 
under butler. The under butler was treated with peculiar 
friendliness by the valet, on account of the latter not being 
on speaking terms with the butler. Ample, therefore, were 
Celestine’s means of obtaining information ; and she had 
a masterly power of treating details in their due propor- 
tions. It was all very well to say that Lord Bellasis had 
invited her mistress so often simply because she was of use 
to his aunt, Lady Campion, and that everybody knew he 


SIDE-LIGHTS FROM CELESTINE. 269 

was in love with Miss Rupert. Tiens ! All that was really 
very interesting, but then why didn’t he marry Miss Rupert ? 
No, no ; Celestine said little ; she was content to wait. But 
then had come several weeks in London and no Lord 
Bellasis, and she was tired of a dingy London house, and 
madame was maussade and triste^ and in fact intolerable to 
wait upon. 

But worse was to come. The very week when Lord 
Bellasis was coming up, off they went to that abomin- 
able Skipton. What was the meaning of that ? and with 
Miss Rupert in London at the very same time. Well, 
happily that didn’t last long, and back they came to London. 
But what was the use ? Lord Bellasis came not. Madame 
gave dinners and Lord Bellasis did not come ; there was not 
even a card in the hall. So three weeks passed, and then 
one day madame had seemed furious after Miss Rupert had 
been to see her, and had told Celestine that the dinner-party 
she had been going to was put off. That evening madame 
went to Madame Hurstmonceaux’ and fainted there, and 
when Celestine was sent for to bring the things for the night 
she soon learnt what had happened. Celestine was in the 
seventh heaven. All had come right. No doubt mischief had 
been made by that bold Miss Rupert; but, ugh! who cared 
for her now ? Celestine’s mind became full of happy visions 
of the future, leading on to the time when the under butler 
should be the butler, and she herself should rule over the 
housekeeper’s room at Bellasis Castle. 

“ But they can marry now / ” she concluded with a sigh of 
envy. 

Still, things did not seem to be going as smoothly as the 
maid had expected. From that time madame’s conduct, her 
air, everything about her, became a positive mystery. The 
first morning indeed she was excited, triumphant, all that 
was natural, quite gay. But after that madame began to 
become odd. Why all this secrecy ? Why this fuss about 


270 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


bringing the letters so quickly upstairs ? Why all the 
mystery as to the shopping ? Miss Hilda mustn’t know 
there were new tea-gowns. Miss Hilda must not see the 
yachting costumes. Only Mrs. Hurstmonceaux, toujours 
Mrs. Hurstmonceaux. Why couldn’t a great lord like Lord 
Bellasis announce his marriage like a man ? “ Enfin c’est 

tout ce qu’il y a de plus extraordinaire. Nous ne faisons pas 
comme 9a en France heureusement.” And Celestine shrugged 
her shoulders and sniffed suspiciously. 

But then it appeared that there was much less mystery at 
Bellasis Castle. His lordship put his letters in the great 
china tray in the gallery just as usual, and a valet or an 
under butler could see the address to Mrs. George Riversdale 
from two yards off. Then my lord had been fussing about 
in his mother’s boudoir and had had a long talk with the 
housekeeper, who mentioned to the whole table at dinner in 
her room that she intended to keep her own counsel, and 
that changes in her opinion were not always for the best. 

So the anxiety for secrecy was not so much on the part of 
Lord Bellasis as on that of madame. And one little incident 
about a week later proved this beyond dispute. Madge was 
in the drawing-room with Marmaduke and Hilda, after an 
early dinner before going to the play. They were drinking 
coffee and Hilda was trying, as far as she dared, to get 
Madge to start, as she did not wish to miss the first act, 
after Madge’s usual habit. The butler came into the room 
just as Madge was saying rather crossly that she would not 
be hurried over her coffee, and Hilda had moved away to 
the fireplace to conceal her impatience. 

“A man has called from Garrard’s, ma’am, to fit on the 
tiara by desire ” 

Madge leapt up exclaiming : — 

“ It is some stupid mistake,” and ran out of the room, 
meeting Celestine, who had brought down her opera cloak, 
at the door. 


SIDE-LIGHTS FROM CELESTINE. 


271 


“ Show him into the study downstairs and I will explain 
the mistake. Come, Celestine,” and as she passed into the 
study she told Celestine to follow her and to lock the door 
after them. 

There stood by the table an elderly man of important and 
responsible bearing, with one hand reverently guarding a 
large red morocco case that lay on the writing-table. Madge, 
with heightened colour and in a hesitating voice began : — 

“ There is some mistake. I don’t know why you wish to 
see me.” 

As she spoke her eyes glanced furtively at the old red 
jewel case with its gilt coronet. The box dated back to the 
days before George III. had created the Lord Bellasis of his 
day a marquis. 

The man bowed deferentially, and held out a letter, which 
placed the matter beyond dispute. In it Lord Bellasis stated 
that he wished the tiara to be made to fit Mrs. George Rivers- 
dale and to have any alteration in the setting that should be 
ordered by that lady. 

To Celestine’s relief madame after that made no further 
comedy of not knowing why the tiara had been brought. 
And indeed it would have been a thousand pities to lose 
such a sight. Both mistress and maid gave a little gasp of 
admiration and turned to each other for a moment in the 
human need for sympathy in strong emotions. It was a 
complete parure of rubies and diamonds with a coronet 
rising above the necklaces, bracelets and brooches. The 
diamonds sparkled and the regal rubies reposed on the 
mellow old white velvet, and the whole had an intangible 
effect of having a long history of its own, a history of triumphs 
and greatness alternating with dignified retirement. For a 
moment it struck Celestine that Madge was hardly equal to 
the jewels, nay, with a rapid feminine instinct she thought 
for the first time that in spite of her beauty and her gift of 
minute elegance, madame would hardly make the great lady. 


272 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the superb woman whom Celestine would have chosen for 
such a position. “ Tant pis ; mais nous ferons de notre 
mieux,” and the little woman firmly resolved that the lady’s 
maid at least should be found not wanting. Meanwhile she 
quietly gathered all the candles in the room on the table in 
front of an old Italian glass that hung on the wall, lighted 
them, and put a chair for madame. As she moved one of 
the candlesticks, her sleeve knocked over an old photograph 
of George Riversdale. Celestine paid no heed to it. 

Sapristi ! what a good thing we have done with all that,” 
and with a contemptuous sweep of her skirts, she pushed 
the frame under the bureau from which it had fallen. 

Madge seated herself at the table, her eyes sparkling with 
excitement and her hands trembling with eagerness, as she 
pulled at the string of beautiful pearls round her neck to 
take them off and make room for the diamonds and rubies. 
A too impatient pull — too rapid for Celestine’s cry of warn- 
ing — and the string broke and the pearls fell scattered over 
the table and the floor about her. 

Mr. Garrard’s gentleman looked shocked, but Madge said 
magnificently, “ Oh, it doesn’t matter,” and held out her hands 
for the necklace. Celestine knew that she ought to be picking 
up the pearls, but she too was intoxicated with the sight 
of the jewels, and she stood with clasped hands in an acch 
of enthusiasm, while Madge was decking herself with the 
parure. 

“ The hair,” said the important functionary very solemnly 
to Celestine, “ should be raised to hold the tiara ” ; and he 
signed to Celestine to come forward without treading on the 
fallen pearls. 

Madge held her little head at its full height, craning her 
neck to see as much of the effect as she could in the glass. 
It was impossible to fix the tiara — which was shaped like an 
old-fashioned coronet — on the very small head ; though 
Celestine tried to puff the hair out on each side so as to 


SIDE-LIGHTS FROM CELESTINE. 


273 


support it. Failing that, the man held it in its right place with 
a gesture of reverent admiration. Celestine was satisfied. 
Madame wore them far better than she had expected ; in fact 
the little figure, the bright eyes, the small head, seemed a 
wonderfully brilliant picture in the old glass. And if the 
attitude was a little stiff and the whole face too consciously 
full of self-satisfaction, these critics were hardly of the kind 
that would note in all this the absence of some of the moral 
qualities of a great lady. 

A few seconds of the tableau before the glass, and then 
Hilda’s voice called Madge on the staircase, only once and 
not impatiently, but it broke the spell of enjoyment. To 
the maid’s great annoyance, Madge’s face suddenly changed. 
She became quite pale, and a strange inexplicable look of 
anxiety — nay of shame — dulled the eyes that had been 
sparkling with pride and excitement. What on earth was 
the matter with madame that she should be so hite, so odd ? 
Madge quickly divested herself of the jewels ; and then 
standing up and hardly glancing at the gems, as the man 
packed them with scientific care into the case, she spoke in 
a hurried low tone. 

“ It was a mistake, I don’t mean you were wrong to bring 
them, but Lord Bellasis did not quite understand. I did not 
want them — for family reasons in fact. I may speak to you 
as a confidential agent of Mr. Garrard’s ? ” 

“Certainly, madam.” 

“ Did you mention to my butler that you came by desire 
of Lord Bellasis ? ” 

“No, madam, certainly not. I said that I came by desire 
of Mr. Garrard.” 

“ Very good ; that is quite right. And for the next week or 
so it will not be known that the tiara is being altered for me.” 

“ Certainly not.” 

Madge’s courage was reviving and she said with more 
dignity : — 

18 


274 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ The reasons for privacy are temporary, but I wish 
nothing to be said till Lord Bellasis tells you where the 
wedding presents will be shown.” 

The man bowed lower than ever and left the room. 

Madge turned to Celestine. 

“ I have to trust you,” she said, “ and I shall reward you 
if you can hold your tongue.” 

Then gathering her opera cloak round her, she went to 
join Hilda. 

Celestine did not hear Madge’s words of explanation when 
she entered the drawing-room. 

Hilda was leaning back on a sofa near the door. Mar- 
maduke was standing by the fireplace holding an evening 
paper upside down. Madge did not even perceive that there 
was something wrong between them, or that Hilda had 
apparently forgotten her anxiety to get to the play. They 
neither of them were acutely interested when she said with 
the utmost effort at a natural manner : — 

“ I have been seeing some rubies. I want to have them 
in exchange for the emeralds the Riversdales gave me.” 

Sunday brought further information for the acute little 
Frenchwoman. She made a discovery that startled and 
surprised her, and for which she had not been prepared. 
She had heard Madge say on Saturday night that she should 
go to ten o’clock Mass at Farm Street Church on Sunday, 
-and Hilda intended to go to High Mass at the Oratory. 
Accordingly next morning Celestine dressed her mistress, 
who was very pale and complained of having had a bad 
night, in time to start punctually at a quarter to ten. 
Celestine then flew upstairs to dress herself and follow, and 
if there was one thing she disliked it was to be hurried in 
putting on her Sunday bonnet. However she would have 
gone with it quite crooked and without a veil, rather than be 
late for Mass. So with quick walking she got into the Farm 
Street Mews at three minutes to ten. A good many people 


SIDE-LIGHTS FROM CELESTINE. 275 

were hurrying in the same direction, and several hansoms 
were jolting over the stones. At the same time a few who 
had lingered after the last Mass were coming away. 

Celestine never passed a toque or a bonnet without a 
deliberate judgment on its merits or defects. Something 
iU^nte was coming her way. “ Mon Dieu,” it was the 
bonnet she had fixed on madame a short quarter of an hour 
ago ; this was madame herself coming away from the church. 
For a moment she thought madame must be ill, and she 
was moving to meet her and offer help when an instinct 
stopped her. There was something in the pale face that 
frightened the little maid. What was it ? What strange 
thing made madame leave the church like that, walking in 
that odd straight way, looking so fierce and yet so ashamed ? 

Celestine’s heart was heavy as she walked back from 
church. It was clear that there was something wrong. 
What could it be ? Lord Bellasis was a Protestant, but 
what then ? In England many people married Protestants 
and proper arrangements were made. Perhaps Lord Bellasis 
wouldn’t make the proper arrangements. But that wasn’t 
likely, from what she knew of Lord Bellasis. He was far 
too indifferent to questions of that kind. Still it was possible, 
but somehow she didn’t think that was all. Perhaps it was 
something to do with another gentleman. But madame had 
no lover, of that Celestine was convinced. No, probably 
it had to do with that tiresome Miss Rupert, but then 
why should that prevent madame going to la messe du 
Dimanche. 

Two other instances of madame being upset with regard 
to religion occurred during the week that followed. That 
night while Madge was dressing for dinner, Celestine, who 
was pouring water into a basin, saw her in the looking- 
glass glance round to make sure that the maid’s back was 
turned, and then take off her scapular, kiss it as usual, and 
drop it into the fire. It was the scapular about which Madge 


2/6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


had always been so particular, and Celestine had heard her 
say that she had never been without one since she had been 
invested with it in the convent chapel when she was only 
nine years old. 

The brass hot water can clattered on to the basin and 
splashed the water on the floor, and Madge began to scold 
her attendant, who was blushing violently. 

On Wednesday when she was going out in the afternoon, 
Madge suddenly pulled at her skirts and asked why the 
pocket was so heavy, what was in it ? Celestine said that 
she had put nothing more than usual, the little note-book, 
the handkerchief, the rosary. Madge pulled the things out 
and threw down the note-book and rosary on the table. 

“ Never put them in again, they spoil the set of the skirts.” 

Then taking up the rosary beads again she said : — 

“Keep it, Celestine, it is made of real garnets,” and she 
held it out to the maid, “ though garnets are of no value 
compared to rubies.” 

“ Mais pourquoi, madame, n’aurait-elle pas tous les deux ? ” 
cried the poor little woman, her honest kindly eyes meeting 
Madge’s with an imploring glance. But her mistress swept 
out of the room in silence. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 

Hilda was dressing for a ball. in Grosvenor Place, the second 
in her whole experience, on Tuesday, 21st March. She was 
not naturally very much interested in dress, but a ball gown 
can rouse the most indifferent to animation. It was a soft 
creamy affair, with little trimming, but it was skilfully made 
by Madge’s own dressmaker, and fitted well. Madge had 
insisted on having it tried on several times, and her efforts 
had proved successful. 

Hilda was resting on the sofa for a few moments before 
giving herself into Brown’s hands, when a small parcel 
was brought to her. It was only a book in a wrapper, but 
Hilda recognised Mark’s handwriting in the address. He 
often sent her things of note which might interest her, 
sometimes works of the most serious kind, abstract and 
metaphysical ; sometimes a modern poem to which he called 
her attention ; little things, yet they were well chosen and 
intended to send thrills through the passages of Hilda’s 
poetic faculties to warmer regions in her nature. All this 
fulfilled her ideal of friendship and satisfied her as to the 
manner in which she was worshipped. 

She tore the cover off the review. It was the Bi-monthly 
Review published that day. She had not known that Fieldes 
was to have an article in this number. She glanced over the 
contents. “ On the Modern Pessimist,” yes, that might be 
by him. She turned the leaves with haste, and began to 
read eagerly. The style proved his authorship, and the 

(277) 


2/8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


first quotation was a favourite passage of his. Fieldes had 
written the article, that was certain. There was no time to 
study it properly. Hilda glanced through it, and gathered 
the main idea rather hazily. But she paused and hesitated 
and blushed as she read one passage near the conclusion. 
Was it ... ? did it ... ? had it a double meaning ? Was 
it written mainly for one eye alone ? 

“ If there is anything,” it said, “which might carry convic- 
tion to the saddened doubter and give him hope of a glorious 
solution of the mystery, it is the development of faith in the 
best women. To recognise that their moral completeness, 
the fulfilment of their natures can only come from some real 
communion with the Unseen becomes in itself an argument. 
Were the doubter blest with such light habitually shining 
for him, such constant testimony to the fittingness of the 
supernatural to humanity at its best, might he not be forced 
to recognise a divine and infinite paternity for such a spiritual 
nature ? And might he not even extend to all natures the 
parentage in this case so unmistakable ? Might he not at 
length cry aloud with the poet : — 

In te misericordia, in te pietate, 

In te magnificenza, in te s’aduna 
Quantunque in creatura e di bontate.” 

Hilda read every word of the conclusion, and felt that it 
had been written for her. (This was true, though it had in 
reality been inspired chiefly by the thought of Mary Rivers- 
dale.) Was it wonderful that she put on her ball gown in 
a tremor of excitement, or that she blushed when Brown 
spoke to her suddenly ? When she was dressed she sat 
down and began the article over again, while Brown waited 
on the landing to warn her the moment that the carriage 
drove up. Madge had been dining out, and was to call for 
Hilda on her way to the ball. 

Hilda had read only two pages when she again turned to 
the end and looked at the concluding passage. She let the 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


279 

book drop as she finished and gazed into the fire. She made 
a pretty picture, the brightness of her excited eyes, the 
tremulous, eager mouth, the touch of sympathy, of a re- 
sponsive note awakened by what she had read. “ Ah ! poor 
man, poor great mind that pined for light and was engulfed 
in such darkness ! Was it not a woman’s work to show the 
light, to supply out of the fulness of her own nature what 
was wanting to him ? ” 

So mused Hilda. The utter unconsciousness of her ball 
gown, of her own lovely effect in the creamy softness about 
her, was in marked contrast to the upright attitude, the 
anxiety not to be crushed, the scrutiny of glove buttons that 
occupied Madge at the same moment in the brougham which 
was driving to pick up Hilda. Yet Madge too had something 
to think about quite as absorbing as Mark Fieldes’ article. 

They drove together to a house in Grosvenor Place almost 
in silence. There a small winter’s dance was in full swing. 
They met one or two men whom they knew on the stairs, and 
Hilda noticed that Lord Bellasis was standing in the first 
room they entered. After that she saw him no more and 
she lost sight of Madge. She fancied he had spoken to 
Madge, but she was not quite sure. Directly she moved 
into the ball-room, expecting Madge to follow, Hilda saw 
Mark Fi^des a few feet from her. She had been thinking 
much of him ; she had been expecting to see him ; yet she 
was startled. He was so close to her; and there was 
nobody else near at the moment ; and he seemed to be pre- 
sented before her quite suddenly. Hilda felt the colour 
rising in her cheeks — he should not see it was for him. She 
turned aside sharply, almost rudely, and at that moment she 
met smiling and inviting looks from Mrs. Hurstmonceaux 
who was seated close to the door. She took refuge with 
her. 

“ My dear child,” said Laura in a tone of tender raillery 
which showed Hilda that her confusion had been noticed. 


28 o 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Laura was talking to an elderly man and she did not pause. 
She was using a large feather fan in a telling manner and 
seemed to be enjoying herself, but she never looked quite 
as happy in other people’s houses as she did in her own. 
When she was not a hostess, her most congenial occupation 
was gone. 

“ Ah,” she was saying, “ do read it. Sir Edward. It will 
really repay you. Whoever it is by it must add to his repu- 
tation. Here is a young lady who reads everything. Have 
you seen the article on “modern pessimists” in the new Bi- 
monthly ? Of course you have. Isn’t it striking ? Sir Edward 
was complaining of the feebleness of our literature at present, 
but here in this article there is real strength. I wonder who 
has Written it ? ” 

Laura as she spoke turned laughing eyes of inquiry on 
Hilda and glanced towards Mark. Fieldes was standing 
disconsolately at a little distance. He could not conceive 
what Hilda meant by her rudeness. What had he done, 
what could it mean ? He was angry and offended. If he 
had had sense he would have walked away and left her to 
feel that she could not be rude without producing some 
effect ; but being Mark, he stood near, looking not unlike a 
snubbed hound. 

Laura beckoned to him gaily — but she did not do so before 
she had had time to whisper to Hilda : — 

“ My dear child, don’t be too ingenue ; though I own you 
look lovely with those little airs ”. 

After that Hilda received Mark with contrite meekness 
and Ijiey walked off together a little sheepishly. Hilda had 
unconsciously half risen before he had asked her to dance. 
It was surprising that Mark did not dance badly. But after 
two turns at the valse, the music of which was of a sweet 
sad description, Mark led her out of the room along the 
passage at the top of the stairs. As they left the ball-room 
Hilda saw that Marmaduke was dancing with Madge. For 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


281 


a moment she forgot Mark and watched those two. How 
pretty Madge looked, and Marmaduke — well, he was one of 
the finest, most manly figures in the room. 

There was a little crowd at the door. Hilda and Fieldes 
were blocked and she could quietly watch the others. Fieldes 
always got more completely stuck in a block than other people. 
Marmaduke and Madge had paused. He was looking down 
at her speaking little, but listening — his dark eyes bent upon 
her. Only yesterday Cecilia had said to Hilda : “ If you want 
to be convinced, watch him when he is looking at her”. Mar- 
maduke suddenly turned round and saw Hilda fixed in the 
crowd with an extended hand that clung to Fieldes, who 
was a little in front of her. He gave a start and began to 
dance again vigorously, Madge looking very tiny beside him. 
Fieldes led Hilda across the landing to a farther drawing- 
room where the band came more faintly to their ears and a 
low murmur of talk' from scattered couples could be heard. 
They sat down on two arm-chairs which were half hidden 
by a palm-tree. 

A touch of anger added to Hilda’s excitement. How 
could Marmaduke have ventured to propose to her while 
this treachery was going on. Yes, it was treachery. It was 
culpable self-deception, he had no right to be constantly with 
Madge and to have made love to herself. He might pretend 
it was all over. Hilda knew better. 

Mark watched her in silence for a moment. 

“You seem preoccupied this evening,” he said quietly. 

It was Mark’s power of sympathy that made it possible 
for him to make observations on people’s moods and ways 
without giving offence. 

“ Oh, no,” said Hilda eagerly and with confusion, “ and 
yet, yes, I suppose I am a little absent, I have been rather 
full of an article I read this evening.” 

Hilda wanted to make amends for her involuntary rude- 
ness when they first met — she did not want to look pre- 


282 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


occupied while she was only thinking of Marmaduke. Yet 
to say that she was preoccupied by thoughts of the article 
was a little strong. She felt it the moment the words were 
uttered, yet she was not sure if she regretted them. It was 
rather exciting. 

“ Ah,” said Fieldes in a tone of feeling. Then he was silent 
again. At last he went on simply : — 

“ You understood, you must have understood its meaning, 
and that is why you were angry when you saw me to-night ”. 

This was not badly said. 

“ Oh, no,” cried Hilda with almost childish vexation, “ oh, 
no, it wasn’t that. It was that I didn’t see you — didn’t know 
— I mean I was shy.” 

Fieldes showed no consciousness of any admission there 
might have been in her words, but he felt himself emboldened 
by them. 

“ Ah,” he cried, “ how dare I tell you how those lines were 
forced from me as I came to the conclusion of the article. 
How in the darkness of my thoughts there had come light 
and almost hope. I felt then more strongly than ever that 
my whole life lies in your hands, the life of my soul as com- 
pletely as the life of my heart. Yet I shrank, I shrink now, 
from letting you see all this. I fear to appeal too strongly 
to your pity, almost to your sense of responsibility to a 
fellow-creature who depends so entirely on you.” 

Fieldes meant and truly felt what he said. He had made 
a good many proposals in his life. Some had been more 
impassioned, but none in so high and pure a tone as this 
one. It added to his admiration of Hilda that she did bring 
out this better self, so far at least as imagination could carry 
him. His voice which was metallic and oppressive when 
he spoke among several people, was peculiarly suited to a 
tete-a-tHe. It had a vibration, a sense of pathos when its 
tone was lowered. Hilda sat absolutely still, her hands 
joined, looking at the carpet in front of her. The childish 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


283 


love of excitement was strong in her. The sense of the 
interest of the situation filled her imagination. Here at a 
ball where other people were flirting and talking nonsense^ 
these two souls, her own and Mark’s, were independent of 
it all, free in a pure outer ether of enthusiasm. This surely 
was the highest tribute that could be paid her. This was 
very different from Marmaduke’s half-hearted curt inquiry as 
to whether she would be his wife. 

“ How is it to be ? ” said Mark with a tremor in his voice 
breaking the silence. “ Is this wounded man to be left by 
the roadside ? I will not say any more. It is for you to 
speak to me.” 

There was dignity in the pathos of this. Hilda had to 
answer, and, to her own surprise, she spoke straight on as if 
she had rehearsed her part and knew exactly what she had 
meant to say. 

“ Do you know that one must never do wrong that good 
may come of it — one may not be one’s own or anybody else’s 
Providence. That is not clear — but what I mean is this. 
If the light should come to you, we should know that we 
have been on the right track ; but we could not be sure of 
that now.” 

Fieldes felt that things were going well — but it was 
dangerous, brittle ground. 

“ I think,” he said, “you may trust me. The question is 
can I become a Catholic ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Hilda, hardly seeing how he had advanced 
and defined their position. 

“ And if I can, if after some time of prayer and of study 
I can truly say I am convinced, and after urgent self-exami- 
nation know that it is from no attraction in this world,, 
however holy, then in that case may I come again, and can 
you promise to receive me then ? ” 

Truth hovered uneasily about Fieldes as the question 
came to its issue. He could truly weave ideals as to Hilda 


284 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and the man by the roadside, but he hardly pretended to 
himself that weeks of theological study and prayer were a 
practical programme. However, Hilda was not cool enough 
to make subtle observations. The same excitement still 
carried her on. The last “yes,” though it came more 
slowly, did not seem very different from the former one. 
Mark took no advantage of it then. He did not take her 
hand, he only leant back and murmured : “ I cannot but 
hope that I may be the happiest man on earth ”. There 
was nothing to scare her, no engagement that need alarm 
her. But Fieldes half unconsciously trusted to Laura to make 
clear to Hilda’s sensitive conscience that she was bound, till 
he could tell her whether or no he could be a Catholic. Why 
shouldn’t that happen, after all ? And, if not, Hilda herself 
might change in many ways under his influence. 

While they were still silent there came round the bushy 
palm-tree a young lady and her partner. She laughed when 
she saw that the seats were occupied, and nodded to Mark. 
Fieldes sprang up with unnecessary eagerness, treading on 
Hilda’s gown as he did so. The young lady was an heiress 
who had been rather kind to him, and Mark never neglected 
an heiress. He turned round half apologetically to Hilda ; 
but Hilda was still in the clouds, and attributed his sudden 
movement to shyness at their being interrupted. But it 
jarred her back to earth that Mark should ask her if she 
thought the girl pretty, and remark on the number of 
thousands at which her income was computed. He said 
this as they walked across the landing where, of course, he 
must have talked of indifferent things. Perhaps it was 
because this was an effort that he had spoken of anything so 
uninteresting as the heiress’ fortune. 

That was the first false note. But she was not to get to 
the end of the evening without a much greater discord being 
struck by Mark, who had become rash and self-confident 
with success. 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


285 


Laura drove Hilda home that night, by arrangement with 
Madge. Mark saw them into their carriage and Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux offered to take him so far on the road to his rooms. 
When they reached the house Mark sprang out before Hilda 
to help her to get down. In doing so he caught his foot in 
Laura’s gown, and though no damage was done, his descent 
did not gain in grace. Then it was that he made the mistake 
which almost undid the results of all his skill. Hilda was. 
springing out when Mark touched her arm to help her, and 
she could not avoid his assistance. But as she reached the 
pavement he gave the soft white arm a slight but unmistak- 
able pressure. Hilda turned round, looked back into the 
brougham with her back to him, bade Mrs. Hurstmonceaux 
another “ Good-night,” and then sped into the hall, passing 
between Fieldes and the footman as if they had equal claims 
on her civility. 

“There are wine and biscuits in the dining-room,” said 
the butler. “ Mrs. Riversdale has gone upstairs.” 

“ All right, don’t wait,” said Hilda, and she walked into 
the dining-room, not because she wanted wine or biscuits 
but because it was an open door in front of her. She passed 
in with her head erect, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining 
with anger. She gave a little stamp on the parquet floor as 
she stood still, just within the screen. Then she started 
back. She had thought she was alone. 

“ Oh ! ” said Marmaduke in a surprised voice. They were 
both silent. The room was softly bright with lamps, candle- 
light and a big fire. Marmaduke was standing with his back 
to the fireplace. He had his greatcoat on ; in his hand was 
a cigarette. He looked particularly handsome in that coat. 
Hilda gave a little gasp and held on to the table as if she 
were giddy. 

Turning as he spoke to knock the ash off his cigarette into 
the fire he broke the silence. 

“ Well, have you had fun ? ” he said. 


2.86 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda sat down and leant her head on her hand. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered ; then suddenly lifting up 
her head in a tone of superiority she added : “ Fun isn’t the 
word for it. It was immensely interesting, quite too excit- 
ing ” ; but her voice quivered a little and she got no farther. 

“ In fact, you are having a good time,” he said, leaning 
his back against the chimneypiece and looking at her 
coolly. 

“ First rate,” said Hilda, drumming with her fingers on 
the table. 

“ Then why were you so cross when you came in here ? ” 

“ I wasn’t cross that I know of,” said Hilda. 

“ Then you were cross that you didn’t know of,” said 
Marmaduke. “ That’s a way some people have. They 
are cross and they are disagreeable and all sorts of things 
they don’t know of.” 

But Hilda suddenly lifted up a sad little face with a sus- 
picion of tears on the long eyelashes. 

“ I’m afraid that’s true,” she said gently. 

She was dreadfully troubled, more troubled than she had 
ever been before. Surely she had not put herself in such a 
position towards Mark as to give him the right to treat her 
like that. What had she said, what had she done that 
evening ? The arm seemed to tingle where he had touched 
it. Her eyes flashed again. She felt humiliated, and that 
at this very moment she should find Marmaduke and be 
alone with him was very hard. How could she bear it ? 
There was no use in trying to deceive herself. She seemed 
to have come at the same moment from Mark in the dark 
street to Marmaduke in the light room ; and from Mark, 
whom she had turned from with a sudden surprised repulsion, 
to Marmaduke — whom she knew, with a sudden but far less 
surprised discovery, that she loved. She let her head fall 
on her arms on the table before her. She would not look at 
him and he should not see her face. He hardly dared to allow 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


287 


himself to see distinctly the graceful head bowed down on 
the table. He smoked quietly on. Whatever this emotion 
of hers might be it had obviously nothing to do with him. 

Suddenly she looked up. 

“ Is Mr. Fieldes a gentleman ? ” she said abruptly. 

Marmaduke did not answer for a moment. 

“ In what way do you mean ? He is educated and all 
that. Plenty of men of his extraction are perfect gentlemen. 
You can judge of Fieldes as well as I can. Personally I 
think he is a snob.” 

“ You never were fair to him,” said Hilda, trying to feel 
combative. 

“ Perhaps not,” said Marmaduke indifferently. “ Well, it 
Madge isn’t coming down again I must be off.” 

Hilda said nothing — then she raised her head and spoke 
quickly. 

“ I want to go home. I wish mother would let me,” her 
voice had a little sob in it. 

Marmaduke’s face brightened perceptibly. 

“ Couldn’t it be managed ? ” he said. Hilda felt bitterly 
that he could not conceal that he wanted her to go. 

“No, she won’t, because of the scarlet fever. They have 
not finished disinfecting the house. I will ask if I may go 
to Skipton.” 

There was a touch of temper in her manner which made 
Marmaduke cautious. While he was still silent Madge 
came in, and the opportunity for further speech with Hilda 
was ended. 

Marmaduke soon left them, and Madge and Hilda were 
alone. Madge sank into an arm-chair by the fire and gazed 
silently into the dying embers. Hilda was walking up and 
down on the farther side of the long table. 

“ How hot it is, isn’t it ? ” she exclaimed, throwing her 
opera-cloak off her shoulders. 

Madge did not answer. 


288 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ It is stifling,” Hilda went on, and pausing by the table 
she tried to uncork a bottle of seltzer water. “ Hang the 
thing,” she said, with very unusual vehemence, “ it won’t 
open.” 

“ Leave it alone,” said Madge dreamily, and a moment 
later the cork struck against Hilda, as she went on walking. 
She stopped and drank hastily of the fizzing water. 

“ Shall we go to bed ? ” said Madge, rising suddenly and 
turning towards the light. “ Why, Hilda, how excited you 
look.” 

At the same moment each had been distracted from herself 
by the look on the other’s face. 

“ Madge, are you ill?” exclaimed Hilda in horror. 

“ 111 ? No, I wish you would not be so foolish. But your 
face is so flushed, I think you must be feverish.” 

Madge, candle in hand, walked slowly from the room with 
a somewhat constrained “ Good-night”. 

Hilda waited until she heard Madge’s door safely shut 
and then ran noiselessly up to her own room, trusting to 
feel her way in the dark. Through the open door a welcome 
sight met her eyes. 

“ Brown, I told you not to wait,” she cried joyfully. 

The old maid smiled, she could see that the child was in 
trouble, and was glad to find her there. 

“ I have my doubts. Miss Hilda, as to whether that French 
girl helps you as well as her own mistress, who takes a deal 
of waiting on.” 

Brown’s voice was combative. She did not hold with any 
of the household with whom they were staying, in her case 
unwillingly. 

“ Oh, yes, she does, when I want her,” said Hilda hurriedly, 
“ but it is not like having you to put me to bed.” 

Brown then plaited the great mass of hair to her own 
satisfaction, after which Hilda knelt down to pray. Brown 
would not leave her, and she could hear stifled sobs coming 


HILDA UNDERSTANDS. 


289 


from the bent head. Hilda had forgotten that she was not 
alone, but when she tumbled hastily into bed, it was very 
comforting to be tucked up by loving hands. The ugly 
affectionate little woman bustled round the bed, and Hilda 
watched her with tearful eyes. 

“There now, Miss Hilda; go to sleep, and my room is 
just opposite, and I shall hear you. The men have done 
papering the room where that silly girl had the fever. I had 
a letter to-night, and they won’t be long fumigating the 
whole house, and, please God, we will soon be home again, 
and everything just as usual,” and Brown and her light went 
away. 

Hilda almost laughed at the futility of these suggestions 
for her consolation. 

“ Did dear, dear old Brown think I was afraid of ghosts 
or burglars ? And to go home and everything be as usual.” 
A sharp pain came with the thought. Everything to be as 
if these weeks had never existed, as if she had never known, 
never loved, never so nearly been happy, and missed it all 
by her own fault. Yet was that not the very thing she had 
said to him herself ? She turned her face on the pillow, and 
wept very bitterly at the thought of her own speech, and 
what heartless frivolity it seemed to show. 

“ Let us play as the children do,” she had said. “ Let us 
play that it never really happened.” 

“ Ah, he couldn’t have loved me,” she moaned, “ I was 
right to think it wasn’t true. If he had loved me, he must 
have answered me then, and he only looked grave and dis- 
approving. Oh, it is very hard, and I did so try not to love 
him. I always thought I would never condescend to be the 
first to fall in love, and now I am, for he doesn’t, indeed he 
doesn’t love me. I am sure he cares for Madge. But I 
can’t go away, I can’t go home, and be as if nothing had 
happened. I must stay and see what goes on here. I 
must stay in London. But then, if I do, there is Mark 

19 


290 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Fieldes — only, thank heaven, he is going away to-day, per- 
haps only for one night, but perhaps for more. What did 
I say ? what did I say to him at that hateful ball ? I 
can’t remember exactly. I can’t get anything clear to-night, 
but it must have been something very rash, very foolish. 
Oh dear, I must ask Laura if I committed myself in any 
way so that he ought to be allowed to hold my arm in his 
horrid hand. Laura is the only person I can speak to ; for 
I can’t and I won’t and I won’t and I can’t go home. How 
good and beautiful he did look to-night, and how kindly he 
looked at me, though I have been a brute. And I asked him 
about Mr. Fieldes. He must think I care about that horrid, 
horrid Mr. Fieldes, who is such a snob, as he said. Oh dear, 
how queer it is to be in love.” 

She sat up now, and leant her chin on her hand, and the 
elbow that supported it rested on her knee. “ The man was 
right who said that it was better to have loved and lost than 
never to have loved at all. I quite agree with him. I am 
glad I love him so and that I would do anything for him, 
even if he treated me ever so badly, and even if I never, 
never see him again.” And she threw herself back on the 
pillow and sobbed again ; the extreme unlikeliness of her 
never meeting such a near connection as Marmaduke in no 
way impeding the free flow of her tears. 


CHAPTER XV. 


CECILIA. 

Cecilia had been to the same dance in Grosvenor Place. 
She had got back to Charles Street at about half-past two, and 
let herself in with her latch-key. She then ran noiselessly 
upstairs, and went into her own room, where the fire was 
bright and the gas burning. 

Cecilia threw off her cloak, and then sat down on the arm- 
chair nearest the fire. She folded her hands helplessly and 
looked vacantly at the burning coals ; then she shuddered 
and gave a low moan. She had had such a long anxious 
winter ; she had had so much to wear her. She was growing 
very thin. Her ball gown, which had once fitted so perfectly, 
was quite loose now. She had been really unwell for six 
months or more. She had lived too hard for her strength 
for several years past, as Madge had said. Then had come 
the strain of a great anxiety on the top of a lowered physical 
condition. In spite of her fears of the autumn, she was for 
some time conscious of her power over Bellasis when they 
met. And there had been moments in their tHe-d-tHes when \ 
something of the old sense of fascination, on which she had 
built so much, reappeared. She had been anxious, painfully 
anxious, but not desperate. 

Back in London, Cecilia had instantly perceived in him 
a subtle change, and she could not now blind herself. Be- 
fore she had been long in London, she had felt sure that 
the fear of the autumn was a reality, that he loved, and 
loved Madge. Ever since that discovery she had lived in 

(291) 


292 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


a struggle, a vehement and useless struggle against forces 
that were beyond her control. She had not despaired. She 
knew of the impediment which made his marriage with 
Madge so difficult. But that Bellasis loved Madge was 
agon}^ to her, and the possibility of their union was an ever- 
recurring nightmare. 

Quite lately, since Hilda’s arrival in London, one plan 
appeared at last to have some hope in it. She seemed to 
have something more definite against Madge than her own 
mere dislike. She had resolved to play what she knew to 
be a desperate game. She would actually speak against 
Madge to Bellasis himself. She would let him know of 
the handsome Marmaduke. She would hint as much as 
she dared. She would try her influence with him, not the 
influence of a woman whom he loved, but still a woman’s 
influence, in affecting his judgment and rousing his intensely 
sensitive pride and suspiciousness. 

And for a short time it seemed that she had succeeded. 
For quite three weeks she felt sure that she had kept Bellasis 
and Madge from having any conversation. She knew from 
his own lips that he was avoiding Madge. He had been in 
low spirits, but all the same there had been positive as well 
as negative signs in Cecilia’s favour. It did for a time seem 
as if for Madge to decrease was for her to increase. Lord 
Bellasis once more seemed to seek her out, and became more 
confidential in their talks. It made her nervous, though 
hopeful, that he seemed to have a growing confidence in her 
truthfulness. But then about a fortnight before this night 
of the ball he had left London and she had not seen him 
since. He had gone down to Bellasis on business — a natural 
reason ; but she was uneasy. Those days while he was away 
were terrible to Cecilia, coming just when her hopes had 
risen again. She thought even bad news would be more 
bearable than this complete uncertainty. 

Yet to-night, while sitting by the fire, that ignorance 


CECILIA. 


293 


seemed to have been bliss compared to her present feelings. 
She always loved dancing. Her powers of enjoyment were 
naturally very great, and she must have been hopelessly far 
gone in trouble for dancing with good music to fail to soothe 
and brighten her. Then, too, a ball always showed her well in 
the eyes of the world, and success was a passion with her. 
Who did not want to dance with Cecilia? People are only 
indifferent to genius because they don’t see it. Cecilia’s was 
a genius that anybody with even a faint notion of music and 
of grace could see when she danced, when she sang, when 
she recited, and sometimes, but less often, when she talked. 

She had been walking about the drawing-room adjoining 
the ball-room after a dance with a heavy quiet youth — heavy 
mentally, not physically. Across the end of the room was 
a large screen, and it was not till she had passed by it that 
she saw that Madge and Lord Bellasis were standing behind 
it. She started. She had believed him to be still at Bel- 
lasis. But he was here ! And he was with Madge. There 
was nothing particularly private in the spot they had chosen. 
Madge had been on her way to the ball-room and Lord 
Bellasis had caught her up. They were saying nothing to 
each other, but it seemed to Cecilia as if his whole attitude 
betrayed a complete change in the situation. Madge ap- 
peared to be very nervous. Bellasis looked down at her — she 
was so small — he could never look down at Cecilia like that. 
There was something protective in his attitude. Cecilia saw 
no more, and they had not seen her. She went back to the 
ball-room and she danced ; but she danced now with no 
pleasure, no relief. 

“Did you ever,” she said to her partner, “wonder why 
the old painters made all the little damned souls dance, and 
the blessed sit upright on hard marble seats ? It wasn’t a 
bad division of mankind after all, was it ? The good are dull 
and bored, and the others dance even in this world.” 

A moment after this speech Cecilia saw that Bellasis had 


294 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


come into the ball-room and was standing not far off watching 
her. She stopped close to where he was standing, but he 
did not come any nearer. As she started to go on with the 
polka, she nodded to him — he bowed rather ceremoniously, 
but that was his usual manner. He affected old-world 
externals of manner, though he certainly did not submit to 
old-world restraints. During the evening she was again 
near him, several times, but he never took advantage of 
these opportunities. 

Seated alone by her fire in the intensely still house which 
seemed to echo the great silence of the sleeping town, Cecilia 
tried to think over her position coolly. Was it all a failure ? 
Had he found out that Madge had been maligned, and 
maligned by her ? If this were so, not only had she failed, but 
it was infinitely worse than if things had gone on without 
her interference. He would hate her now as a liar. He 
would despise her for sinking so low for his sake. It was 
intolerable, life was intolerable. Even before, when she had 
found out that Lord Bellasis loved Madge, the pain had 
seemed too great to bear ; but this was far worse. This 
second disappointment, though after slighter hope — for she 
had only half believed that she could detach him from Madge 
— was far harder to bear. The strain was telling upon her, 
she was weaker mentally and physically. Alone in the 
night she grasped her own arms, she hugged herself in a 
frenzy of pity. She slipped off the chair on to the ground 
and she buried her head on the seat where she had been sitting. 

Life, what was life now ? nothing, nothing but misery. She 
wailed there alone and nobody answered. She might cry for 
very loneliness in grief, and nobody would mind. Not only 
was there no more hope, but there was to be the end of the 
small sustenance that her love and her life had been fed upon. 
The sound of Bellasis’s voice had been wonderful to her. 
So had the look in his eyes when he admired her, the almost 
involuntary startled sympathy when some chord had been 


CECILIA. 


295 

struck by her music or sometimes by her talk, oftener by her 
dancing, something which she had once likened to the kissing 
of their souls. She had lived on such moments, and one 
of them would make her happy for days. Now she seemed 
to be burying all that ; all was going from her and what was 
left? 

She shivered. She felt very ill that night; there was 
an aching pain in her side which came after any exertion 
now. The fire was getting low, the pain increased. She 
got up with an effort, took scissors that lay near, and cut 
through the lace of her bodice rather than undo it and tore 
the gown off. She turned out the gas, jumped into bed and 
cowered down among the bed-clothes. 

For all the four hours, from four to eight in the morning, 
she lay there, shaking, thinking, thinking with the terrible 
vividness of sleeplessness. 

“ And yet I don’t want to die,” she said more than once in 
a kind of astonishment at herself. It was a relief when her 
maid came with the tea. For almost the first time in her self- 
centred life she was terrified at being alone. 

The hospital nurse who attended the elder Miss Rupert at 
night was not a little surprised at receiving a visit from 
Cecilia in her own room at about nine in the morning. 
Nurse Barnes was very tired as she had only finished the 
night duty about an hour before. 

At the moment Cecilia came in she was getting out her 
bonnet for the hour’s regulation walk before she lay down 
for the day’s sleep. 

Cecilia appeared in her dressing-gown and inquired at once 
how her aunt had slept. The report was not good and per- 
haps the nurse was not loath to give a bad account of things 
to Cecilia. According to the nurse’s code a woman’s whole 
character is decided by her conduct towards the patient for 
the time being ; and Cecilia was condemned by every standard 
which Nurse Barnes knew. 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


296 

Cecilia hardly seemed to hear the details given her, but her 
next question surprised Nurse Barnes still further. 

She had walked across to the fireplace, and was leaning 
with one elbow on the chimneypiece. She looked ill, tired 
and worn in the morning light. Her mass of rather coarse 
hair fell about her face which depended a good deal for its 
usually classic effect on the arrangement of her locks. Nurse 
Barnes took a woman’s pleasure in reflecting how plain Miss 
Cecilia could look without adornment. “ She will not wear 
well,” she thought. 

“Nurse,” Cecilia said, “how long do you suppose my 
aunt has had this illness ? ” 

“ Oh, it must have been brewing for a long, long time,” 
said Nurse Barnes fidgeting with her bonnet. She longed 
to put it on, and get off for her walk. 

“ For years ? ” said Cecilia. 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ Then in old days when she used to get giddy when she 
took me to balls, and say sometimes that she was in pain — 
do you suppose it had begun then ? ” 

“ Surely,” answered Barnes with satisfaction, “she has been 
a greater sufferer than anybody would give her credit for.’’ 

“ And was it one of the symptoms that sometimes she 
was frightfully hungry and yet couldn’t eat ? ” 

“ I believe that is a common symptom,” said Barnes, 
trying to remember what she had once read in a medical 
dictionary on the subject. She had ventured now to begin 
putting on her bonnet which she did with almost scientific 
precision. It had been bought at the Stores for sixteen 
shillings and nine pence, and was generally considered a 
success at the Nursing Institute. 

“ Did she ever tell you that years ago she had a tiny lump 
in her side which she thought came from a blow ? ” 

There was something so curious in Cecilia’s voice that 
the nurse was struck by it. 


CECILIA. 297 

“ What is she at now ? ” thought Nurse Barnes, “ whatever 
is in her head I wish she would let me go out.” 

“ She did say something of it,” said Barnes, “ but mostly 
she tells those things to Dr. Rule and he is not one to tell 
the nurses much about it. Now if I were working with my 
own doctor I should have had the whole scientific diagnosis.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Cecilia. 

“ Did you want to say anything more ? ” said Barnes 
suggestively. 

“ Oh, no, thank you,” said Cecilia and she walked out of 
the room. 

An hour later and Cecilia was being shown into one of 
the largest houses in Harley Street. She was very pale, but 
then so were many of the many patients waiting in the soberly 
handsome dining-room. Cecilia was not accustomed to the 
waiting-room of a great consulting physician. The pale-faced 
youth in one corner, the middle-aged man in another, the 
young couple sitting together talking in whispers, the old 
lady reading a novel, all seemed to her to have looks of 
tragic anxiety on their faces. 

She took up a book and tried to read. She succeeded ; 
she became excited. It was a strange piece of modern realism 
— it was the account of a man having his leg cut off in a 
hospital. It was ghastly in its reality, yet the art of the 
poetry was so studied as to give a great sense of calmness 
in the narrator which added to its force. The description of 
the man losing consciousness under ether had passages of 
extraordinary beauty. Cecilia was fascinated. The artist in 
her was always aroused by a touch of genius. Yet the poem 
could hardly distract her from herself. It rather seemed to 
grow into her own state of mind, to intensify her own feel- 
ings. She shut the book. It was becoming too exciting, not 
distracting. She looked about her at the others in the room. 

“Which of them,” she wondered, “felt as she felt in that 
room ? ” 


298 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


It was all so horrible, so ghastly to think of people looking 
at illustrated papers who were waiting for their life or death 
verdict. In her present mood she fancied that they had all 
come to a crisis in their lives. But after all, she thought to 
herself, she was not really as they were. She had come 
with a horrid creepy fear in her mind ; but she had come 
chiefly because she believed that it would be set at rest by 
the great man. She was stronger now and felt an inclina- 
tion to a reaction against the misery of the night. Had she 
not been morbid, overstrained ? Was she so very sure that 
all was over ? Might she not have made the most of her 
momentary glimpse of Madge and Bellasis ? Would not 
their attitude admit of another interpretation ? Might it not 
be due to embarrassment, not sympathy ? Madge had looked 
quite nervous, almost guilty. Then they must have parted 
at once, and they had not danced together. Madge had 
danced two or three times and then gone away. Would she 
have gone so early had she been hopeful of seeing more of 
Lord Bellasis ? Then as to that individual’s own conduct 
— it was always peculiar, his emotions so often took the 
strangest forms. She had known him watch Madge in 
silence for a whole evening without speaking to her, at a 
time when his feelings for her were unmistakable. Why 
then was his looking at herself last night in silence a bad 
sign ? Cecilia was arguing against her own instincts, but 
she succeeded in quieting her fears to some extent by the 
strength of the case she made out against them. 

But at length the door opened and the functionary looked 
in for the ninth time since she had been in the room, and 
this time she felt almost surprised to see that he was bowing 
to her in the same mysteriously summoning manner that 
he had used to the other patients. She went out, crossed 
the small hall, and was ushered into the presence of the 
great magnate, the revealer of hidden things, who gave hope 
or fear to all, and healing to a possible few. 


CECILIA. 


299 


Dr. Rule had taken full advantage of the position of a suc- 
cessful doctor in an age in -which health is a mania. He felt 
himself to be on a platform that commanded an attentive 
audience. So he discoursed to it, chiefly in the reviews, on 
many things, on moral, on philosophical questions. But of 
course science was his strong point, and the heredity of 
disease was the strong point in his science. He enjoyed the 
position of a sage and of a confessor to many. He was in 
the habit of watching character. He had observed Cecilia 
Rupert during his chance meetings with her at her aunt’s. 
He knew something of her life, and he had noticed that she 
looked ill. 

As she came in, he rose from his desk at which his last 
patient’s prescription had been written, and came one step 
forward, no more, for the light behind him fell full on her 
face and he was occupied in looking at her. He said : “ How 
d’ye do ? ” and there was a pause. Cecilia’s courage failed. 

“ I came,” she said, “to ask you what you think of my 
aunt ? ” 

The voice was hard, cold, indifferent. Dr. Rule hesi- 
tated because he had not been thinking of the elder Miss. 
Rupert. 

“ There is very little to say in these cases,” he observed ; 
“ it is almost impossible for us to form any idea of what the 
progress of the disease will be.” 

“ Will it always be painful ? ” inquired Cecilia, her eyes 
dilating. 

“I hope not,” he said. He thought she was showing 
some feeling. “ I sincerely hope not, but it is impossible to 
prognosticate with any accuracy. Let me see,” he said, 
“ how long has she been ill ? We might judge a little how 
affairs have gone so far.” 

He took up his notes of the case and looked them over. 
He became interested in them. He was no longer thinking 
of Cecilia. She had evidently not come as a patient. He 


300 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


told her a good deal from the notes in highly technical 
phraseology which she could not understand. She listened 
impatiently for some minutes and then broke in : — 

“ Where has she got the disease ? ” 

“ Oh, of course it is hereditary,” said the great man, his 
face brightening as he got on his favourite topic. “ It is one 
of the most hereditary diseases we know of.” 

“ I remember,” said Cecilia, “ that years ago she used to 
have curious health.” 

“ This sort of thing may begin quite young,” said Dr. 
Rule, “ but a great deal may be postponed by quiet, healthy 
living. Take two people with germs of the disease, alike 
in all other respects, and one may by his own doing avoid 
years of suffering. Depend upon it, Miss Rupert, in quiet- 
ness shall be our strength.” 

“ But I am not quiet,” said Cecilia, forcing a smile. 

Dr. Rule did not understand this sudden self-application. 
He thought it was a general answer to his text. 

“ But, my dear young lady,” he said paternally, “ you 
must be quiet. It is necessary for everybody. You don’t 
know the irreparable injury that may be done in two or three 
years, and for a member of your family care is specially 
necessary.” 

Dr. Rule thought she needed frightening — he had heard 
something of her recklessness, of her selfishness ; and as a 
moralist and as a doctor he thought she needed frightening. 
Then Cecilia suddenly in a calm voice told him of all her 
symptoms. He cross-questioned her closely, but his eyes 
occasionally strayed to the clock. When she had finished 
he said : — 

“ I wish I could give you more time now, but I have a 
consultation at twelve. I think that you are certainly not in 
a right state. Still there is nothing for you to worry over. 
I should recommend complete change and rest. I think it 
might be as well for me to see you the day after to-morrow 


CECILIA. 


301 


when I come to your aunt. If I could see you then I would 
examine you just to set our minds at rest — your mind I 
mean, for I see no cause for present anxiety, only of course 
one cannot forget the hereditary tendency. But don’t worry, 
don’t worry, it can do no good.” 

The great man shook hands with her, and Cecilia went 
out. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MORE ABOUT CECILIA. 

When Cecilia found herself again in the street it felt to her 
strangely chilly. She walked on rapidly, hardly knowing 
which direction she was taking. She seemed to herself to 
have gone a great step downwards since she entered that 
house. She had expected to be laughed at by the great 
man for her fancies. She had known such fears and such 
reassuring treatment of them before. Ever since she was 
a child she had had a tendency to nervousness about her 
health, and she half liked the process of confiding her ideas 
and having them set at rest. But now instead of being told 
not to think more about them he said that he would see her 
again at once and examine her. An examination ! She was 
about then to be drawn into the first circle of the inferno of 
disease and death. Oh, those examinations, when the first 
fears of her aunt’s health were beginning! Those ghastly 
consultations, she knew it all so well. And then he had 
told her not to worry, not because he was certain that there 
was no cause for anxiety but “ because it would do no good ” 1 
No indeed, nothing that she could do or think would do 
good any more if the disease were there, if Death’s finger had 
touched her. Her courage of reaction after the night seemed 
to have gone. 

“All, all is wrong,” she found herself saying. “Last 
night my hopes were killed, this is but the carrying out of 
the programme.” 

Cecilia never dissociated her hopes and her fears. The 

(302) 


MORE ABOUT CECILIA. 


303 


clairvoyante' s prophecy had been too distinct for that. The 
woman’s words seemed always to ring in her ears. Either 
the attainment of an immense happiness, her heart’s desire, 
or a horrible and painful death were before her. Never had 
her credulity been shaken by a doubt. Either she should 
win Bellasis or she should die of her aunt’s disease. 
Life since that revelation had presented only two possible 
alternatives, perfect happiness or perfect misery. She had 
read every sign of friendship from Bellasis as throwing 
light also on her health. She had taken any bad sign in 
her health as a proof that her love was hopeless. She had 
thought that the doctor would bring positive evidence to 
weigh against Bellasis’s apparent desertion the evening 
before, against her strong impression on seeing him with 
Madge. The sick hopelessness of the night was returning 
upon her. But it was morning; it was daylight. She 
could not cower down among the bed-clothes now. She 
had to live through the day. The clairvoyante was away. 
She could not go to her ; and if she could have seen her, 
had not the medium constantly told her 'that she could not 
explain her own words further, that she herself did not 
understand them any better than Cecilia did ? 

But this state of things was intolerable. She must find 
out more about Bellasis. It would be better, infinitely better, 
to know the worst. 

She had been walking fast, almost unconscious where she 
went, but she had been getting nearer the park. Oh, if 
only one could get some more light on the question. Hilda 
might be useful if they could talk alone ; but she doubted if 
it would be possible to manage that in Madge’s house. On 
the whole it was as likely that Hilda would be at Laura 
Hurstmonceaux’, and really it might be easier to find out 
more of what was going on from Laura than from anybody. 
Directly this became clear, she called a hansom and drove 
towards Cadogan Place. But Laura was out. It was 


304 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


intensely provoking. All through the drive Cecilia had become 
more and more eager to see her. But as Laura was not to 
be found, she would go straight to Madge. Madge was out 
too, and so was Hilda Riversdale. It was now getting near 
lunch time and Cecilia was feeling very giddy. She was 
engaged to lunch miles away at a great actor’s house in 
Hampstead, a friend of Lord Bellasis. He might be there. 

She went home to dress more gorgeously, but while the 
maid was doing her hair she nearly fainted. She drank 
some brandy and water, and drove off in the brougham. 
Bellasis was not one of the luncheon party, and nobody 
talked much about him — she did not think that he had been 
asked. The meal prolonged itself endlessly. To Cecilia it 
was dulness that could be felt physically. She had thought 
she was very hungry, but she could eat very little. As soon 
as possible, she got away, and drove again to Laura’s, nearly 
an hour’s drive from Hampstead Heath. Mrs. Hurstmon- 
ceaux had gone out a few moments before. Cecilia felt half 
crazy with annoyance as the carriage drove home. On the 
table in the hall was Laura’s card, showing that they had 
only just missed again. She had not cried at all till now, 
but the tears came at this slight mischance. It was im- 
possible to keep still, and it would not do to go to Madge 
twice in the same day. There was a card for a tea-party, 
where Madge was not unlikely to be, lying on the table. It 
was worth while to go to it. 

She went, and stayed half an hour in vain talking wild 
nonsense to some of her girl admirers. Then on to the 
house of another friend of Madge’s where at least they were 
sure to talk of her. Here indeed it was easy to make her 
hostess discuss Madge, not altogether amiably ; but there 
was nothing definite in what they said, no gossip as to Lord 
Bellasis, no apparent consciousness that anything special 
was going on. Still as long as the subject could be pro- 
longed Cecilia stayed. At length, when it seemed impossible 


MORE ABOUT CECILIA. 


305 


to carry it on further, she made her farewells and left. As 
she was going downstairs Laura Hurstmonceaux was coming 
up — just too late. 

“ So provoked at missing you twice to-day,” cried Laura. 
“ How are you, my dear ? not very well, that I can see. My 
dear Cecilia, when will you learn wisdom ? Your high spirits 
are quite wearing you out ! ” 

It was so sweetly, so affectionately said. 

“Ah!” cried Cecilia, “let them. I’d rather get life’s 
worth in a few years. A woman should live till thirty and 
then for heaven’s sake shoot her. Don’t you,” with a slight 
hesitation, “ think so too, Laura ? ” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Laura sarcastically, but wincing a 
little at the shaft. “ But, dear, when shall we meet in this 
city of confusion ? how would eleven to-morrow morning do ? ” 

“ Perfectly,” cried Cecilia. 

Cecilia drove home, trying the while to see if anything 
could possibly be gathered from Laura’s few words. Certainly 
Laura was in good spirits, and her manner had been 
caressing, always a sign of ill-nature when she was talking 
to Cecilia. Then her anxiety to see Cecilia looked bad. 
She would wish to meet if she could annoy her, on the 
other hand she would wish to meet if she were afraid of her 
influence with Lord Bellasis. Though not gauging exactly 
how much Laura was in his confidence, it was plain to 
Cecilia that Laura was promoting his flirtation with Madge 
and eager to interfere with herself. But it was of no use ; 
further light on the question would not come. Her mind 
went on working with desperate activity, producing nothing 
but increase of exhaustion. 

When she was at home again it was still too soon to dress 
for dinner, and rest was out of the question. An idea struck 
her. She went down to her aunt’s room. Miss Rupert was 
lying very still, but a slight moan came from the bed as 
Cecilia drew near. The girl shuddered, and touched the 

20 


3o6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


curtain to draw it aside, when the nurse who was sitting on 
the other side of the bed signed to her not to do so. Miss 
Rupert was sleeping. Cecilia moved hastily, almost im- 
patiently away. Then it was of no use. What was of no use ? 
Strange as it may seem, Cecilia had come downstairs to ask 
her aunt to pray for her happiness. It might do good ; 
any how it couldn’t do harm. She would have implored the 
clairvoyante to foretell it. She would have asked her aunt 
to pray for it. She went back to her room and got through 
the time as best she could till the maid came to dress her. 

The house at which the dinner was to be was a congenial 
one. It was a home of real musical talent. The family and 
their food were too simple to be much repandu in Cecilia’s 
own world. But some of her friends went there from time 
to time and always said they wished they could manage to 
get there oftener. 

To-night Cecilia longed for distraction, and although the 
dinner seemed intolerably long, the music afterwards did 
help to lull thought. 

Having begun with some successful solos they had been 
drawn on into trying to sketch parts of their favourite operas. 
They all knew the things well and rather rejoiced in them 
as in reminiscences, than attempted finished execution. 
Nobody minded if a note were missed or a few bars only 
hummed ; it was only to revive in their memories moments 
when the greatest performers had carried thein out of them- 
selves into a world that never was and never will be describ- 
able in words. 

They had come to a passionate woman’s solo, and Cecilia 
was singing it. Her voice was not strong, but she acted as 
she sang with wonderful force for an amateur. Her whole 
being seemed to be drunk with the music. The others might 
have been startled, only that they were all filled with the 
same spirit as herself. When she stopped a moment’s 
silence followed ; and then before the son of the house could 


MORE ABOUT CECILIA. 


307 


take up his part, a voice she knew well startled her. From 
behind a screen close at hand Bellasis the privileged, who 
had come in uninvited, had stepped forward and was singing 
the lover’s part, a little crudely but with vigour. For the 
moment Cecilia was carried away by the conviction that the 
deep manly voice, the grey slightly sunken eyes were 
speaking the heart’s language for which she had thirsted. 
Suddenly it overcame her. She knew that she had been 
confused, that she had blushed deeply and been too upset to 
sing any more ; but it was a delicious trouble, the sweetest, 
most soul-soothing pain. 

After the music was over Bellasis came across the room 
to where she was sitting. He sat down beside her, but 
they neither of them spoke. “ What a wonderful creature ! ’’ 
he thought, “ what an extraordinary being. How she loves 
me I What a genius and how her genius transforms her ! 
Yet heaven defend one from depending on a creature of that 
kind. How false, how cruel she could be ! And yet well 
might a man be infatuated by her ! ” 

He was looking at her as he was thinking. She was 
leaning back, resting — resting body and mind in the light of 
his countenance. He felt almost as if he were'condescending 
in praising somewhat contemptuously this human creature, 
lazily taking a sensuous pleasure in the thing that he knew 
would have given her life for him, and half despising her, 
manlike, even for her devotion. And she was feeling that 
the whole sun of her heavens came from those eyes looking 
at her in a way that was in reality an insult. For it was 
because he held her so lightly, because he did not believe 
her to be true, that he could play with her so easily. 

“Cecilia,” he said in a low voice, and Cecilia almost 
wished the joy of the silence had not been broken. She 
was silent. Then he slid his hand under the large feather 
fan that lay on her knee and covered with his large hand 
the little fingers clasped tightly together. For a moment he 


3o8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


held one of her hands in his. Cecilia was quite motionless. 
He gave it the slightest pressure. He leant over her and 
for one moment she looked up at him. In that moment her 
fate was sealed. 

“ Good-night,” said Bellasis abruptly recovering himself, 
and he rose up and went away. 

“ Though she is a liar I oughtn’t to have done that,” he 
thought as he made his way out of the room. “ But the 
past has been very pleasant. Nobody has ever amused me 
as much as Cecilia.” He gave a little sigh. “ And how 
exquisitely graceful she is. Madge won’t be half as amus- 
ing ! ” 

He hummed the tune he had been singing and he talked 
of Cecilia with a friend he met at the Travellers. 

Cecilia went home in clouds of misty glory. She would 
analyse nothing, she would doubt nothing. “ All is well 
with my soul, all is well,” she sang laughingly to herself 
the refrain of the Methodist hymn. That night the pain in 
her side kept her awake ; but she didn’t want to sleep, she 
wanted to day-dream, and what did the pain matter ? 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE REST ABOUT CECILIA. 

Laura had quite looked forward to her talk with Cecilia. 

“ Poor girl,” she thought, “ one does not wish to be ill- 
natured, but really she has been so very ridiculous and 
worse than ridiculous. Her conduct has been unpardon- 
able.” 

Laura felt quite maternal. She was going to do the girl 
so much good, and it was much kinder than letting her hear 
the news by chance, perhaps among a crowd of people. 
Cecilia looked better this morning. She had quite a colour, 
and the haggard tension in her face was relaxed. She and 
Laura kissed, which was an unusual ceremony between 
them. Laura admired Cecilia’s gown. There was something 
so very clever about the arrangement of the fur. Made by 
her maid ? No, that was impossible. Why the woman 
was worth her weight in gold. Cecilia admired Laura’s 
flowers. Quite too exquisite and so perfectly arranged. 
It must be so delightful to be as artistic as Laura. 

“ They are lovely, lovable things,” said Laura, “ so 
different from what one gets in shops — though our English 
shops are so improved.” 

“ You get them from the country ? ” asked Cecilia. 

“ Yes, they come from Bellasis.” 

Cecilia knew it before she spoke. A very rare kind of 
begonia was among them, the particular pride of the gardener 
at Bellasis Castle. Now that the name had been mentioned 
they were silent for a second. Laura rose and moved to 

(309) 


310 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the fireplace and held one foot to the fclaze. Her eyes and 
hands were occupied in keeping her skirts at a safe distance 
from the flames. 

“ Talking of Lord Bellasis,” she said in a bright tone, 
“ has it ever struck you that he admires Madge ? 

“ Oh, of course,’’ said Cecilia airily, “ months ago I 
noticed it."' 

Laura was enjoying herself ; and her feline instincts made 
her inclined to dawdle over what she had to say. 

“ Yes, I think so too,” she said in a meditative voice ; 
“ and I thought you must have seen it, because you are so 
extraordinarily quick in all that concerns your friends. I 
thought long ago ‘ Cecilia is certain to see this ’ ; but I did 
not like to say anything. And there was really then nothing 
to expect, no likely result, I mean.” 

Cecilia felt herself turning very cold. She was afraid of 
losing her balance, of saying something that would betray 
her. Yet she must speak. 

“ What makes you talk of it now ? ” she asked. 

The simplicity of the question a little interfered with 
Laura’s “ play ”. She turned round with the sweetest smile 
and looked straight at Cecilia. 

“ Well, I think people are getting wind of it to-day,” 
she said. “ Surely you have heard the gossip as to Madge’s 
engagement ? ” 

Cecilia tightened her grasp on the arm of the chair she 
was sitting in. 

“ And is the gossip true ? ” she said. 

Again the directness of the question changed Laura’s 
tack. 

“Well, yes,” she answered; “I think I may tell you 
privately that it is true.” 

Cecilia did not speak. Laura went on. 

“You are so quick,” she said. “You would see if I did 
not tell you. You know that I am behind the scenes. 


THE REST ABOUT CECILIA. 


31I 

Well poor Madge has suffered a great deal — she is so 
conscientious, so absurdly scrupulous, that she was quite 
afraid it would be wrong to marry one who was not a 
Roman Catholic.” 

“ And she has got over these scruples ? ” Cecilia’s tone 
betrayed bitterness. 

“ Yes,” said Laura sweetly, “ at last she has, I almost 
thought at one moment that the irrational folly would carry 
the day ; and I think it might • have, if it had not been for 
one consideration. And yet she had immense attractions 
to overcome. I own it astonished me that Madge should 
be willing to sacrifice so much to religious ideas. Love, 
position, wealth, power, happiness.” Laura dwelt on each 
word as she summed up. “ And especially after all she had 
suffered.” 

“ And yet,” said Cecilia, “ you say there has been a 
consideration greater than religion.” 

Cecilia looked hard at Laura ; but she might as well have 
given up the struggle to appear indifferent. Laura could 
read her easily and rather enjoyed seeing the courage that 
was so futile a disguise. One can conceive a tyrant pre- 
ferring the victim who did not scream aloud on the rack, 
as a more delicate source of enjoyment than an ordinary 
coward. 

“ Yes,” said Laura, it was a consideration of ordinary 
plain duty that dispersed the mist of religious scruples. 
Some one had been trying to make Lord Bellasis believe 
that Madge had had an old love affair which was not at an 
end ; that this was what made her hesitate to say ‘ yes,’ 
and that her feelings towards Bellasis were the most sordid 
and mercenary. She felt it due to herself to explain matters, 
and the explanation — in this very house — led to her engage- 
ment. It is difficult to realise how odious the world can 
be till one sees its capacity for cruelty.” 

Cecilia commanded herself with an effort. She felt now 


312 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


that Laura knew all. There was a true ring of righteous 
indignation in Laura’s voice ; but there was no answering 
moral shame in Cecilia. The question of right and wrong 
had been done with long ago. What she felt at this 
moment was the utterness of her defeat, the completeness 
of her humiliation, the stupidity, the gross stupidity of her 
plans. But she did not blame herself much for her own 
failures. What she had done had made little difference. 
This was her fate. She was sinking deeper and deeper. 
She put her hand to her side for a moment as if she felt 
pain. She thought of Dr. Rule and the clairvoyante. 
She knew now that she was to die. But the world was still 
with her — still had its eyes upon her. The instinct of 
combat rose up. She might be defeated by disease and 
death, these were greater than she. But Laura or Madge 
should not defeat her. As Manfred defied the lesser spirits 
when he knew himself defeated by the greatest, so Cecilia 
defied these puny spiteful women who, like herself, were 
after all only subjects of death. She was not silent for 
as much as a quarter of a minute, but the soul works 
quickly. She got up quietly and looked at Laura. 

“ Thank you for telling me all about it,” she said. “ Will 
you tell me one thing more. Is this engagement known by 
people in general ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Laura smiling, “ one mustn’t say anything 
about it yet. Only I suppose it must be getting out, but I 
would not for the world be quoted on the subject. I can 
trust you, Cecilia ? ” 

“ You can trust me perfectly,” said Cecilia calmly. Her 
attitude had a certain dignity. She avoided Laura’s kiss, 
shook hands and went out of the room. She was walking 
downstairs, not looking in front of her, when she suddenly 
found herself opposite Lord Bellasis. He was two steps 
below her, so their eyes met on a level. She looked straight 
at his face with a searching firm glance. She did not shrink 


THE REST ABOUT CECILIA. 


313 


this time as she had done in the delicious joy of the evening 
before. She simply looked one question with her whole 
power. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

Directly she saw that he shrank from answering it, directly 
she recognised in his face only a sense of embarrassment, 
and even that not acute, she looked down again. She ought 
to have known it. She was not really surprised. She was 
to him simply a matter of indifference. Her instinct had 
deceived her. Last night had been nothing — only a sort of 
unwilling yielding to an artistic attraction. 

After that one glance Cecilia did not look up again. 
Bellasis was in her way but he did not move. He could not 
see her face hidden under her enormous hat now that she 
was looking down. He only saw that her little hands were 
trembling as she pulled on her long gloves. Her hands were 
thinner than when he had first known her. They were 
beautifully modelled, white and small. He reflected with 
annoyance that Madge’s were larger and not well formed. 

Cecilia knew that she could not deceive him, could not 
pretend indifference. He had had her soul at his mercy and 
he simply did not care. Well, she would show no weakness. 
No sob of pain should escape her. Nothing more should be 
told by her ; — she had shown far too much already. But the 
thought that she was alone for one moment with the man she 
loved with the vehemence of a passion she could not control 
was becoming too much for her. She was ashamed, bitterly 
ashamed. Laura’s rebuke as to the weapons she had used 
against Madge had awakened no moral sense ; but the know- 
ledge that this man thought her to be base filled her with 
shame for what she had done. Was it nothing to him that 
it had been for his sake ? And had she suffered nothing ? 
Had she not been wronged when Madge had come between 
them ? Had Madge’s conduct been any nobler than her own ? 
Madge, a Catholic, had gone against her dearest convictions 


314 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


to wreck Cecilia’s happiness ! Could she in no way clear 
herself before Bellasis ? 

No, all was over. All words would be futile now for ever. 
No use now to “ plumb the salt estranging sea ” that lay 
between them. Half the bitterness of such a parting is the 
sense of being misunderstood. He did not know her ; Jie 
did not know Madge ; and he was not troubled. Cecilia only 
was troubled. 

At last Bellasis with the British instinct under embarrass- 
ment — and he was embarrassed — held out his hand. Cecilia 
did not seem to see it now. She stepped forward. He was 
obliged to move to let her pass and she ran downstairs and 
was lost to sight in a moment. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 

Madge had had a troubled night of heavy sleep and bad 
dreams, intangible and vague, but none the less distressing. 
She could not rest in the morning. Her brain was tired 
and yet active, and would not be quieted. She felt better 
when she had had some tea and dressed and come down to 
the drawing-room. It was the 24th of March, and she was 
not sorry that there was still plenty to do to prepare for her 
leaving home on the 27th. 

On the whole, the plans arranged at Mrs. Hurstmonceaux’ 
little over a fortnight ago had been adhered to. There 
were to be no settlements so as to avoid the necessity of 
mentioning the engagement to the Riversdales before it 
was made public. Lord Bellasis had kept away from her 
for the two weeks, with the exception of a night in London 
on which a meeting was effected with Madge at Laura’s 
house. During that evening Lord Bellasis had asked her 
to fix Saturday the 25th as the wedding-day. The talk up 
to this point had gone very smoothly. They were quite 
agreed as to keeping to the first plan of arrangements, the 
engagement should be announced in the papers, and two 
days afterwards they would be married privately, with no 
witnesses but the Hurstmonceaux. In that way they 
would secure the public announcement and would yet 
avoid any time for interference from Madge’s Catholic 
relations. Lord Bellasis thought himself considerate in 
suggesting so late a day in the week as Saturday, and 

(315) 


3i6 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Madge said quietly with a little break in her voice, which 
touched him inexpressibly, that Saturday would do. Madge 
was so small, so gentle, and there was something pathetic 
in the delicate feminine reserves and half-unwilling yielding 
that fascinated the strong man and satisfied his unconscious 
love of power. 

“ Then Saturday, little woman, I will take you right away 
to the south and the sea. You are so pale and tired, darling, 
you ought to be taken care of.” 

Madge leant back and looked up in his face with a wan 
little smile. 

“ I am not well, you know, and I have lived so much 
alone. I am afraid you won’t find me very bright.” 

Lord Bellasis knelt down by her side for a moment, leant 
forward and lightly kissed her forehead. 

“ Wait and see, little woman, if we can’t manage that after 
March the 25th.” 

Madge gave a start and looked alarmed. 

“ The 25th,” she cried, “ which day is the 25th ? ” 

“ Saturday, of course,” he said smiling, but a little per- 
plexed. 

Madge tried to command herself and puckered her forehead 
in the effort. 

“No, no, the 25 th won’t do ; it is too soon, I can’t, no, I 
can’t be ready by then.” 

“ But you know,” answered Lord Bellasis a little im.pa- 
tiently, “ you told me that if I went away for two weeks we 
would then put it in the papers and be married two days 
afterwards. That would make our wedding-day Friday the 
24th. It isn’t quite fair to turn upon me when I suggest the 
2:5th and say it is too soon.” 

Madge was exercising great self-control ; she had nearly 
lost her head while she was speaking and had been on the 
point of crying out that the 23rd or the 24th would do, any 
day but the 25th. She would have been obliged to tell him 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 


317 


the truth if she had gone so far. For on the 25th of March, 
Lady Day, the Feast of the Annunciation in the chapel of 
the Sacre Coeur Convent at Montmartre, Madge O’Reilly, 
aged ten years, had made her first communion. The fact 
of Lord Bellasis pressing for that special day raised in her 
mind and heart a sudden paroxysm of fear and awe. Now, 
all that she could say was that she must have more time, 
that she could not be ready, she wished to wind up her 
affairs at home, dismiss the servants, pay the house accounts,, 
arrange for a caretaker, etc. 

Lord Bellasis fumed for a few minutes and called it all 
nonsense, but Madge had recovered her wits and knew how 
to soothe him. She said that it was important to have 
everything in order — it made the whole thing look better. 

“ For my own little reputation,” she said, half laughing, 
“ I don’t know that I ought to consent to be married only 
two days after we have taken the world into our confidence.’^ 

“ Then tell them now,” growled Bellasis. 

Madge looked really hurt, and one of the tears that had 
been confined with difficulty rolled out in silvery brightness 
on her cheek. After that, though the logic may have been 
indistinct, the conclusions reached were clear. They were 
to be married on Monday, the 27th, as the wedding could 
not be on a Sunday, and the engagement was to be put in 
the Morning Post of the 25th. 

“ Put ‘ will shortly take place,’ ” said Madge with a shy 
smile. 

“ By Jove, yes, it will be very shortly.” 

And then, with a very unusual touch of solemnity which 
became him well, he bowed his head over hers as they stood 
together before parting. 

“ May God do so to me and much more also if I do not 
make thee happy.” 

Madge clutched his arm for support. The world about 
her was becoming indistinct. 


3i8 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Oh, yes, you will give me a very good time,” and she 
hid her face with a little laugh on his shoulder. 

All, up to the morning of the 24th, was carried out as 
had been planned. Madge had been very busy putting her 
affairs in order. She was not a bad woman of business 
when she chose. She was one of those extravagant people 
who know quite well what they are about and get their 
money’s worth to the full value, although much of the money 
is still unpaid. And in her own house she had housewifely 
instincts. She owed very large sums to dressmakers and 
many shops, but the butler and the housekeeper thought 
her very regular in her payments. She was writing cheques 
for the wages to be given at the last moment with full 
directions as to what the servants were to do when she had 
gone. Yet though unconsciously glad not to have a moment 
to spare, and throwing herself almost vehemently into all the 
business she could think of, it was unusually badly done. 
Sums were added up wrong, and two cheques were put into 
their envelopes that were not signed at all. 

Madge had been at her writing-table by half past nine, — 
for her an extraordinarily early hour. Celestine kept coming 
in with a number of questions. 

“ Would madame take all the new lingerie^ even to the 
summer toilettes de hain en dentelles Russes ? ” 

“ Mais, certainement.” 

Five minutes later she was sorry to deranger madame, 
but the second opera-cloak had just come. Would madame 
see it ? and Celestine held out a light cloud-like object of 
blue brocade trimmed with chiifon. Madge turned round to 
give her full attention. 

“ Why they have put the wrong ribbons at the back. 
Those are horribly vulgar ; and you know they have all the 
petticoat bodices to alter before to-morrow night. The tucks 
are so absurdly exaggerated. What intolerable people they 
are.” 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 319 

And then a footman interrupted the interview with the 
opera-cloak bringing a note on a salver. 

“ Friday ^ 2^th March. 

“ Dearest Madge, 

“ One detail more — may I fetch you in my brougham 
on Mbnday or will you come for me ? lam entirely at your 
disposal, but if my brougham is to be honoured, I should 
like to order bouquets, etc., to-morrow morning. I feel so 
much for you at having all this business on your hands. 
Can I be of any use to-day ? I was shown the tea-gowns at 
Kate Reilly’s yesterday in a private room. They are divine. 
But I must not run on, I will look in this afternoon to see if 
you want me. 

“ Your loving 

“ Laura. 

“ P.S. — I told Cecilia of the engagement yesterday as you 
wished.” 

The colour rose in a hot flush to Madge’s face as she 
glanced at the postscript, and her hand shook. Having 
hastily written a line to say that she was most grateful and 
would much rather be taken to the wedding in Laura’s 
brougham, she turned her attention again to the opera- 
cloak. 

It isn’t right at all. The lining is actually greenish and 
of the wrong kind of green. Oh, Hilda, is that you, and 
going out already ? Do you like my new opera-cloak ? ” 

“ How lovely ! ” cried Hilda. But I can’t stop ; Cecilia 
wants particularly to see me at half-past ten.” 

Cecilia this morning ? Why, how tiresome ; I want you 
to come out with me. I think you might have told me last 
night.” 

Hilda looked astonished. Madge had seldom shown the 
faintest interest in her morning occupations before. 

“ What’s the use ? ” thought Madge, “ she must know it 


320 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


soon. It may be as well to get it done to-day,” and she 
made one more effort. 

“ Oh, do throw Cecilia over ; you might, for once in a way, 
give her up for me,” said Madge flushing. “ Send her a note 
to say you can’t come.” 

“ But she is so very urgent,” Hilda answered nervously. 

Then Madge walked in a curiously unsteady yet direct 
way to the window and clasping her hands in front of her 
said in a dreamy voice : — 

“ You won’t see Cecilia if you do go ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” said the astonished Hilda. 

Madge turned round, walked back to the fireplace and 
gave a little hysterical laugh. 

“ Oh, nonsense, I don’t know. Go if you want to,” and 
she sank back in an arm-chair. 

“ Why did I say that ? It was odd. I suppose I wanted 
to stop her going.” She shivered. “What a bright day 
and I want sunshine. I must get out soon and get rid of 
these horrid thoughts. It won’t be pleasant when Hilda 
knows ; but then, after all, she won’t know anything more 
than that it is a mixed marriage, unless Cecilia — but — but 
how very odd ! Cecilia is coming here, coming upstairs. I 
can hear her ! ” 

And at that moment the door opened and the footman ap- 
peared. Behind him was a lady. Madge had almost said 
“ Cecilia,” when she suddenly realised that it was not Cecilia 
but Mary Riversdale who had followed the servant. 

Madge was half relieved but greatly annoyed. Marmaduke 
had not told her that the Riversdales were coming up. And 
she was feeling queer and ill. She did not feel equal to 
complications. Still the sight of Mary had brought her back 
to the realities of life. 

“How d’ye do, Mary?” she said, kissing her not more 
mechanically than usual. “ Isn’t it cold ? Come nearer the 
fire, won’t you ? ” 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 


321 


Mary said she had walked too quickly to feel cold. 

“ How well you look,” cried Madge, “ and what a lovely 
hat.” 

Mary smiled ; it was so like Madge to admire her hat with 
a tone of surprise in her admiration. 

“ Yes, isn’t it pretty ? ” said Mary lightly ; “ mother bought 
it for me to-day.” 

Mary seemed wonderfully well certainly, and bright, 
quite curiously bright, Madge reflected ; there was a sunni- 
ness about her that was very observable. She had never 
seen her so handsome, so well dressed — quite fashionably 
dressed — before. What could it mean ? 

“ We came up yesterday for a short time and Fve heaps 
to do,” Mary went on ; “I am to be painted among other 
things.” 

Madge had intended to keep as close to the weather line 
in talk as possible, but this was too much for her. 

“ Mary,” she cried, “ what has happened ? are you going 
to be married ? ” 

Madge blushed a deep red as she spoke. A soft tender 
look came into Mary’s blue eyes ; and the wells of light in 
their depths shone brilliantly. Mr. Fieldes had once said 
that he had never seen eyes that distributed the light as 
well as Mary’s. 

“ No,” she answered with a low laugh. Everything about 
her seemed to Madge transformed and softened. “ No, but 
I have come to tell you something,” for a moment she 
hesitated and blushed. Madge bent forward eagerly ; her 
face with its dark lines round the eyes looked almost 
haggard, and her hair was ruffled in the way Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux so much disliked. What made Mary look like 
this ? To what fruition had she passed ? 

Like the reflection of a summer’s cloud, a tremulous 
shadow of feeling passed over Mary’s face, a suspicion of 
emotion. 


21 


322 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Madge, I came to tell you that I am going to be a Sister 
of Charity.” 

Madge stared on. She seemed to have lost the power of 
speech. At last she said very coldly : — 

Have you thought of it for a long time ? ” 

“ No. Only — only since that time you were at Skipton.” 

Madge’s face did not change in the least. 

“ Why did it attract you ? ” she said in the same hard 
voice. 

“ It didn’t attract me,” said Mary, blushing deeply ; “ I 
couldn’t bear it.” 

“ But you look happy now.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mary. “ I should think so.” 

Where are you going ? ” 

“ I hope to China.” 

“ China ? ” said Madge in the same voice as before. 
“Why China?” 

“ Because of the babies,” said Mary. “ They throw away 
j^rl babies there, you know.” 

“But, Mary, if it didn’t attract you at first when did it 
.attract you ? ” 

It was becoming a great difficulty to Mary to answer 
these hard unsympathetic curious questions. Madge had 
always managed to hurt Mary. She was hurting her now, but 
Mary reflected that happy people mustn’t be selfish, and Madge 
somehow looked so very very odd. For a moment the same 
fear that had once overwhelmed Hilda came to her, that 
Madge might be a little mad. At that very instant Madge 
was thinking to herself: “It is sheer intolerable madness. 
They are all mad and they are all bad, very bad, to let that 
girl sacrifice herself like this.” 

Mary had been quite silent for a moment. 

“ I’ll tell you what I can, but it is rather difficult. Do you 
remember that night Father Clement preached, and the text ? 
Well it came to me then first of all as an idea, but I ran 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 


323 


away, I was a coward and I was frightened ; I suppose it 
was the supernatural that frightened me, and for some weeks 
I was always running away and I was, oh, so miserable. 
The day you went away and Carlos was killed was almost 
the worst. My horse died a week later. I was full of horrors, 
everything seemed so hard and horrible. I couldn’t see why 
I couldn’t be left alone. It seemed as if God had killed them 
both as a message to me, and God seemed hard. Have you 
ever had that temptation ? ” 

“Yes,” said Madge, but the words seemed to stick in her 
throat. 

“ And I couldn’t bear Mr. Fieldes giving me the Imitation. 
It seemed as if he too witnessed against me. Then at last 
one night I suddenly saw God’s love clearly, and my life 
seemed such a little thing to give up. I saw that I was 
standing in my own way and I gave in. It felt simply as if 
I could not possibly help it.” 

“ Then were you happy ? ” said Madge. Her voice seemed 
to grow more and more negative. 

“ Yes, but not as I am now. I think it was like a death- 
bed with all one’s consciousness. There seemed great 
happiness but great sorrow too. It was like dying. It took 
a week to die.” 

“ And then ? ” said Madge, moving unconsciously a little 
nearer to Mary. “ And then ? ” 

“ I suppose one doesn’t know what heaven is,” said Mary, 
“ but one may say it has been heavenly — not that I care one 
bit less for mother or father, only I seem to be always on 
the point of meeting all I love in heaven for ever.” 

There was a strange mingling of pain and joy in Mary’s 
face as she spoke ; but the suffering appeared to be conquered 
by some habitual mental state as if a cloud had passed 
between her and an overmastering vision, and had obscured 
it for a moment only. She was gazing in front of her as she 
spoke, when she heard a low sob from Madge. Madge had 


324 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


bent over the side of the chair and had buried her face in her 
hands. She was shaking with suppressed sobs. Mary knelt 
down beside her and stroked her hair softly — the elaborately 
dressed hair she had so often wondered at. At last Madge 
threw up her tear-stained face almost roughly. 

“ You won’t meet me in heaven any how,” she said. 

“ Madge, dear, you mustn’t say that,” said Mary with 
tender gravity. 

Madge buried her face again. 

“ Mary, you can’t understand,” Madge went on, in a low, 
quick tone, “ only you can see that it is of no use to talk to 
me about religion, about God. You must go now, and you 
mustn’t come here again ; you will know soon why not, and 
you must tell them all that it was not possible, after the life 
I led with George at Skipton, to refuse happiness now. 
You know,” her voice grew harder and more shrill, and 
she bent over the side of her chair, “you know it is not 
possible.” 

“ Madge,” said Mary quietly, “ I am going.” The child- 
like narrative was over, Mary was the strong girl that she had 
been an hour earlier, a stronger, more complete personality 
than Madge had ever seen her before. “ I am going now. 
I cannot tell why you are sending me away, but as you wish 
to do so, I will go. But I have to say something first which 
you must listen to, as we may not meet again. I should 
have had my great-aunt’s fortune when I came of age, £4000 
a year, now I have settled to give the income to trustees, to 
pay off the rest of George’s debts and to pay you for whatever 
you have had to pay for him up to now. Then, if you will 
let me, I should like to clear up anything you owe yourself. 
After that the rest will go to my father. I am going now, 
Madge, you will say good-bye ? ” 

Mary was standing over her. 

“ Good-bye,” muttered Madge, without raising her head. 
Mary walked slowly and sadly to the door and opened it. 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 325 

Oh, don’t, don’t go, Mary ! Stay now. How can you 
leave me ? How can you be so unkind ? ” 

It was Madge, Madge holding out her hands, gazing with 
a longing as if for mercy. Mary went back and put her arms 
round her. Madge was sobbing and could not speak. 

Some moments passed. At last, when Madge’s sobs had 
grown quieter, Mary, who was sitting on the arm of the chair 
leaning over Madge, spoke very gently. 

“ Is there something the matter ? ” 

Madge made an effort to control herself. 

“Oh, no, I don’t know, I am foolish. Never mind, I 
mustn’t keep you, you had better ” 

But here she put her hands to her face and sobbed more 
wildly than ever. 

“ Don’t, Madge,” said Mary, “ don’t behave like that.” 

“ Put your arm round me then,” said Madge, “ and I 
won’t. You wouldn’t touch me if you knew,” she whispered, 
“but you needn’t know just yet,” and she leant back, keeping 
very still. 

Mary waited with a trembling foreboding for what might 
come. Then Madge said suddenly : — 

“ I am not a Catholic any more, Mary, so I suppose we 
shan’t meet again”. 

“ Hush, hush,” said Mary, with a sort of motherly re- 
proof. 

“ It is no use hushing me and soothing me as if I were a 
baby. It is quite true, and you mustn’t suppose you can 
make any difference. You needn’t think I don’t know what 
I am about. I do, perfectly well.” She sat up again. “I 
have thought it all out,” she said. “ I can’t be good. It is 
of no use. And so I can’t avoid doing something very 
wrong, can I ? And so it simply is that I’ve chosen one big 
wrong thing to do. Then of course, you know, I shall 
repent some day. I’ve not lost the faith, I never shall lose 
it. Mary, I sometimes wish I could. Don’t look like that, 


326 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


I don’t want to. Oh, Mary, Mary, go away; I am going 
mad. Oh, why, why didn’t God leave me that baby ! ” 

She was standing now facing Mary. “ Don’t look like the 
angel in the picture. I have sold my soul, and it is no business 
of yours. I will, I will marry Bellasis, and his wife whom 
he has divorced is sure to die, you know, and then we shall 
be married by a priest. Now I’ve told you ; now go — only 
— only — there is the door bell — wait till I’ve told them to 
say ‘Not at home’ to Cecilia.” 

She walked to the bell in the same unsteady and yet direct 
way that she had done when Hilda was with her in the 
morning. Then she paused and without raising her hand 
or pressing the bell she said in a dreamy voice : — 

“ But it is of no use to say ‘ Not at home ’ to Cecilia ”. 

She turned round with a frightened look and saw that 
Mary had knelt down by the sofa, and she appeared to be 
praying. A sudden fit of temper seized Madge, and she 
dashed forward to pull Mary to her feet and force her to go 
away. But suddenly, how she never knew, the momentary 
gust of anger passed from her, and as if against her will she 
knelt down by Mary’s side. Then she heard Mary saying 
in what seemed to her a strangely exultant voice : — 

“ Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed 
art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, 
Jesus”. Madge answered mechanically: — 

“ Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and 
at the hour of our death. Amen ”. 

Mary was saying the Rosary. And Madge was answering 
her in the words familiar to her day after day in her life as a 
child and as a school-girl. The Rosary had been said by the 
girls at the Sacre Coeur every day before dinner. Madge 
had always said the Sorrowful Mysteries as part of her pre- 
paration for confession. Torn by a conflict of feelings she 
could not understand or explain, the words that had so often 
given comfort seemed a relief. Another Hail Mary and yet 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF MARCH. 327 

another,- and at the end of the decade the “Glory be to the 
Father,” and then another decade. 

Dreamily she continued to answer. She forgot that she 
had told herself it was of no use to pray, she soon forgot that 
she was kneeling against the sofa in her own drawing-room. 
She thought she was in the convent chapel at the Sacre 
Cceur, with the beautiful Notre Dame high on the throne. 
And the girls were singing a cantique^ and the warm air 
was scented with lilies and with incense. And Madge found 
herself praying, as she had never prayed before, for she knew 
that she was in some terrible danger. There was a chasm 
open between her and the altar, and she could not get across 
it. Then the cantique grew fainter, but she was holding up 
her rosary to show the others that she was praying too. 

“ Sainte Marie, mere de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres 
pecheurs mamtenant et a Theure de notre mort. Ainsi soit-il.” 
“ L’heure de notre mort,” that was it, that was what she had 
been saying in English, “ the hour of our death ”. Was this 
a foresight of that hour ? Was that Lady on the throne, 
turning away from Madge, turning to a little baby who will 
never see its mother again ? 

“ Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy 
Ghost,” Mary was finishing the second decade. What was 
the priest doing in the convent chapel, the same old cure ? 
He was at the altar, and the altar was farther off now. He 
was asking them to pray, to pray for one who was dying, 
who was once one of themselves, and who was dying with- 
out the sacraments ; and he seemed to say that he could not 
reach her across the, chasm ; and he kneels down and the 
words come faintly to her 

“ Ave, Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in 
mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus ”. 

And Madge answered : “ Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro 
nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.” 

Mary recalling the scene later on remembered that Madge 


328 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


had finished the Hail Mary once in Latin and once or twice 
in French. 


The rosary was finished, and Mary had risen from her 
knees ; but Madge did not get up for some minutes. She 
remained kneeling, her face buried in her hands, no longer 
praying, but as if dazed and stupefied. At last she got up 
and said very quietly : — 

“ Will you take me to Skipton for a little while, Mary ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


SILENCE. 

Hilda had hurried away from Madge to be in time for 
Cecilia’s appointment. 

“ I must see you to-morrow at half-past ten,” she had 
written, “ it is important.” 

It was a bright, sunny, windy morning, and Hilda, who 
was in low spirits and worried, seemed to herself to be the 
only exception to the general cheerfulness. Yet the people 
she met would hardly have thought her a blot upon the 
sunshine. Her large hat was trimmed with spring flowers ; 
her graceful vigorous figure was well defined by her close- 
fitting jacket. The look of trouble on the brilliant face was 
so slight as to be unnoticeable by a chance observer. A 
young man who encountered her carelessly held parasol, and 
felt that its point had scratched him, muttered to himself 
that that beautiful girl must be already in love. She knew 
her way and did not miss one of the right turnings in spite 
of her preoccupation. Dreamily she walked up the steps of 
the house in Charles Street and rang. 

The visitors’ bell was answered almost instantly. Hilda 
was still half absent and was habitually shy of servants. 
She turned round as she shut her parasol saying, “ Miss 
Cecilia Rupert,” without looking at the maid. The girl 
answered quietly — hysterical women servants had already 
gone out of fashion : — 

“ We are in great trouble, miss. Miss Cecilia Rupert was 
found dead this morning. Dr. Rule has just been here.” 

(329) 


330 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


Hilda stood and looked at her in silence for a moment. 
Then she said : — 

“ How awful ! ” 

“ I was told, miss, if you called, to ask you to see Nurse 
Barnes.” 

“ Me ? ” said Hilda. 

She had already turned to the door with an instinctive 
wish to get away. Cecilia, whom she was to have been 
with at that moment for the sort of chat she knew so well, 
which always left her a little shocked at Cecilia, and a good 
deal ashamed of herself — Cecilia was dead. Dead, why, oh 
why ? Had she been ill ? Had there been an accident ? 
She turned to the parlourmaid. 

“ But,” she cried, “ she was not at all ill ! ” 

Motionless were the muscles of that admirable person. 
No butler of the old regime could have been more calmly 
automatic. 

“Would you please to see Nurse Barnes, miss ? ” 

Hilda signed acquiescence, and she was led to the little 
back sitting-room that had been Cecilia’s sanctum. Hilda 
went to the window, and turned her back on the room. It 
was oppressively full of Cecilia, every object in it was painful 
to her vision. The writing-table and sofa, the cushions, 
the swing-— Hilda would not look at them. 

After a moment the nurse entered. She was a thin 
woman with hair turning grey. Her manner now was ex- 
tremely professional. The parlourmaid was exercising great 
self-control. The nurse required no effort in that direction. 
She had got over that sort of thing in her hospital days. 
She shut the door very quietly and came up to Hilda. 

“You will be surprised at my asking to see you, and I 
fear it may be painful, but when I was called to Miss 
Cecilia’s room this morning I noticed two notes lying on 
the table beside the bed. I would not allow anything to be 
touched until Dr. Rule had been.” 


SILENCE. 


331 


“ But why,” faltered Hilda, why did she die ? ” 

Nurse Barnes looked out of the window. 

“ Dr. Rule has told me to give this to all private in- 
quirers.” 

She held out to Hilda a scrap of paper, on which she 
read : — 

“ Miss Cecilia Rupert died from the effects of a large dose 
of chloroform, death probably taking place about twelve 
o’clock last night. 

“(Signed) F. Rule, M.D., F.R.C.P.” 

Hilda turned quite white and sat down involuntarily on 
the chair behind her. Her eyes swam, she could not see 
the address of a note which the nurse now held out to her. 
Nurse Barnes gave her time, and then spoke a little sternly. 

“ You must please read that now, in case it should have 
to be shown to the coroner,” she said. 

Hilda obeyed. The note was addressed : — 

“ Miss Hilda Riversdale — To be called for”. 

Hilda opened it, then let it drop. The nurse picked it up, 
and put it back into her hand. 

“ Read it,” she said, with authority. Hilda read : — 

“ Dear Little Hilda, 

“ I don’t want to live any more, so you will not 
see me again. I should any how have died soon, so there is 
nothing to fash for, even if there were anybody who would 
mind, which there isn’t. But I hope you will live and have 
a good time. Don’t be afraid about Mr. Marmaduke ; he 
loves you very much, and if he ever loved anybody else, he 
got over it years ago. 

“ Don’t imagine that he will be unhappy when Madge 
marries Bellasis. There will be nobody who will be sorry 
for themselves when that comes. You good people will be 
furious with Madge, because he is a divorcee. There, it is 
out now. A dead woman may surely tell tales. I tried to 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


332 

make you all save her, but you wouldn’t, and it is too late 
now. 

“Little Hilda, I will tell you that I would be rather 
different if I had to try living again. But the rest is silence. 
A hackneyed quotation — still I hope an appropriate one, 
irresistible under present circumstances. 

“ Yours very affectionately, 

“ Cecilia.” 

Hilda only half took in what the words meant. Then 
she looked imploringly up at the nurse. 

“ Oh, she was mad, she was mad, wasn’t she ? ” she cried. 

“That will be the verdict, — ‘while of unsound mind.’ It 
is always put like that.” 

Then the nurse did not think that Cecilia was mad. And 
if she were not mad, then probably that letter was true. 
There was no sense of comfort out of the note yet. Blank, 
colourless horror and anguish crushing her soul and her 
body, was all Hilda knew. Were not the simple facts to a 
home-bred religious girl sufficiently crushing ? Her friend 
had committed suicide, and Madge, a Catholic and her 
cousin’s widow, intended to make a sacrilegious marriage. 
And Hilda could not doubt the truth of the assertion, as 
Cecilia must have had positive proof of it before she 
destroyed herself. But how far, far more wicked was Madge 
than Cecilia — Madge who had faith than Cecilia who had not. 

Hilda started up, holding the note tightly, and walked 
blindly across the room. Madge was the wickedest but 
Cecilia was dead. And she, Hilda, what had she been 
doing, what had she tried to do ? She had been of no help 
to them, she had been selfish, utterly selfish. Had she 
ever tried really to help Cecilia ? Had she not been full of 
her own wicked jealousies and rash judgments ? Oh, it 
was very hideous. Marmaduke would never love her if he 
knew, and he would be right not to. Hilda turned fiercely on 


SILENCE. 


333 


herself. The thought of Cecilia was intolerable. She knelt 
down suddenly, “ Oh God, be merciful ! ” she cried aloud. 

The nurse touched her on the shoulder, Hilda recollected 
herself and rose. Something in the woman’s face made her 
fold the note tightly in her hand. It was not feminine 
curiosity, but the professional sense that there was a 
business side to the note. Hilda had not completely lost 
her head. She rallied. 

“ Miss Cecilia Rupert believed that she had but a short 
time to live, and so she took her own life,” she said firmly. 

Whatever happened that note must not be seen. Come 
coroners, come doctors, come a whole army of calm com- 
manding nurses, they should not get that note. Hilda 
glanced at the grate, but there was no fire. Nurse Barnes 
saw the glance. 

‘‘ You must not destroy it,” she said sternly. 

“ But then what am I to do ? I can’t show it, I can’t 
leave it, and, oh, I can’t wait in this house for the coroner.” 

“ No, no,” said the nurse soothingly, “that would not be 
fitting ; you are too young. You ought not to be here at 
all. Now listen to me. Pay attention. I can’t let that 
note go. I am too much concerned in it. For I let Miss 
Cecilia have that chloroform for her toothache, as she called 
it, and I must think of myself. If there is a good reason 
for this death, whether it makes a scandal or not, those 
gentlemen must know it. And if you destroyed the note, 
you would have to give evidence on oath which would 
probably bring out something far more awkward. If you 
give that to Dr. Rule, you can trust him to keep it out of the 
papers. The brother. Lord Rupert, has been telegraphed for, 
and he and the doctor and the coroner will manage matters 
between them. I know how these things are done. It will 
be settled at the inquest that she was insane, and then, being 
insane, it will be evident that what she wrote was mere 
madness. It is a mercy that the poor thing upstairs is past 


334 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


knowing anything about it in this world. I expect Lord 
Rupert will have to arrange for a double funeral. Just sit 
down at this table and do up the letter, address it to Dr. 
Rule, and seal it up. If you like we will post it together.” 

“No,” said Hilda, “ I will leave it with you. I believe 
you are right. Where is the sealing-wax? I have my 
father’s seal.” 

She spoke quietly, but her hand shook so much that she 
could hardly write the address — or fix the seal firmly. The 
nurse helped her, and the moment it was finished, she turned 
to escape. 

“ I will put you in a cab,” the nurse said kindly; “you are 
not fit to be alone. But where are you going to ; *who will 
look after you ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Hilda impatiently, breaking away 
from the nurse’s questions, and leaving the room before 
the woman could speak again. As she came into the hall 
she started back. Standing talking with the parlourmaid, 
with an expression of intense pain on his dark face, she saw 
Marmaduke, and she heard the maid say : — 

“There is Nurse Barnes, sir; Dr. Rule wished her to see 
you.” 

Marmaduke at Cecilia’s house early in the morning, also 
commanded to interview Nurse Barnes seemed to be confus- 
ing for a moment, but for a moment only. Nurse Barnes 
had spoken of two notes. Was the other for Marmaduke ? 
and was it also “ to be called for ” ? Hilda’s feelings were 
divided between the strong wish to get away from Marma- 
duke and a wish to cling to him in this moment of horror 
amid these calm automatic women. 

“ Wait for me, Hilda,” exclaimed Marmaduke ; “what has 
brought you here ? ” He was full of horror at the news and 
much distressed at finding Hilda at that house. But he too 
was to find that far worse things were to be told him in the 
little sitting-room than in the hall. Being stronger, calmer, 


SILENCE. 


335 


more experienced, — being a man, he was able to get at least 
good hope of happiness out of the note left to him by Cecilia, 
with its positive assurance of Hilda’s love for himself. Then 
too the revelation it contained as to Madge’s engagement to 
Lord Bellasis and of his being a divorcee, though a shock, 
was not quite as astonishing to him as to Hilda. His 
suspicions that something very wrong was going forward 
had been growing rapidly stronger during the last few days. 
This meeting with Hilda was in itself fortunate, though he 
wished he could have shielded her from contact with the 
awful tragedy in Miss Rupert’s house. He must consider 
now where she ought to go, as on no account must she 
return to Madge. 

He escaped from the nurse as quickly as he could, after 
he had sealed up his note also. He said that he would see 
Dr. Rule himself at once. After a moment's glance into the 
empty hall, he saw an open door, and through it Hilda was 
visible, leaning back in an arm-chair, her face absolutely 
colourless, her eyes large and vacant. But she got up quite 
quietly and followed him. The nurse had been called up- 
stairs, the parlourmaid was gone — they were alone — but he 
would speak no word to her and ask no sign from her while 
they were in that house haunted by the shadow of Death — 
not Death ruling as a king, almost gracious in his majesty, 
but Death as an unwilling guest, grudging his awful pomp 
to a rebel who had dared to forestall his chosen hour. 

Marmaduke and Hilda once in the street, paused for a 
moment — then Hilda said in a very low but distinct voice : — 

“ Will you call a hansom ? ” 

He signed to a hansom standing near and helped her into 
it. She sat down in the middle of the seat. Marmaduke 
looked at her. Whether she wanted him or not it was clear 
to him that he must go with her. She was unfit to be alone. 
And where was she going ? She must not go to Madge ; 
that he could not allow. He wished he knew if Cecilia had 


336 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


told Hilda of the engagement. He dared not at this moment 
risk upsetting her further by speaking of it for fear that she 
did not know it. He had better take her to Mrs. Rivers- 
dale’s hotel, that was the only safe thing to do. But before 
he could decide to tell her that her aunt and Mary had come 
up to London, Hilda leant forward in the hansom, “ Tell him,’^ 
she said in a louder voice, “ to go to Victoria Station — 
Brighton line”. 

Marmaduke obeyed, and then got into the hansom without 
asking her leave. As the horse moved, Hilda said : — 

“ I am going to mother”. 

Marmaduke’s masculine mind was not prepared for such 
sudden action — though it was really by far the best and 
simplest solution of the problem. But that Hilda should 
drive off to the station, and go down to the country, without 
Brown and without boxes, was so very sudden. Men 
instinctively dislike the idea of sudden action on the part of 
women, it seems a straining of the practicable. Hilda had 
not even looked out her train. If, on the other hand, she would 
allow him to go with her how very different that would 
be ! In this time of sorrow and shock would she not be very 
gentle, and turn to him for comfort ? If what Cecilia wrote 
to him were true, — and surely only an hour before death she 
would speak the truth, — Hilda really loved him, and only some 
mysterious misunderstanding, some girlish mistake, had made 
her hide it so long. Surely, throwing into the scale Cecilia’s 
positive assertion and much in Hilda's conduct that had 
always puzzled him, — a look in her eyes that seemed so much 
more kindly than her words, a break in her voice that seemed 
so much less self-assured than her manner, — might he not 
hope now, hope with good confidence ? What if at the end 
of that journey he and she went together to her mother ? 
Delicious, glorious conclusion ! The simple sweetness, the 
sweet simplicity of it nearly made him laugh aloud ! But he 
had to rein up those boisterous hopes of his very quickly. 


SILENCE. 


337 


His best plan he thought was to be firm. 

“ Hilda,” he said, “ I must go down with you if you 
want to go now.” He trembled with anxiety behind his. 
most masterful manner. 

“No, you cannot leave London,” said Hilda, “ the coroner 
may want you, and you said you must go and see Dr. Rule.” 

Marmaduke felt rebuked by these words. This was not 
the day for his hopes any more than Miss Rupert’s had been 
the house in which to express them. Cecilia would soon be 
left behind them, casting at most a shadow of sadness, of 
tragic suffering, of haunting fear on their imaginations. But 
to-day was too full of her, too dark with the horror of her 
lifeless body, not to be entirely hers. For to-day at least 
their own lives must be interrupted, and such mourning and 
prayer as it could contain must be wholly given to Cecilia. 
Hilda’s words, and Hilda’s manner seemed a just reproof for 
the thoughts of love that filled his mind. It was wonderfully 
touching to Marmaduke to see such pity and sorrow, such 
shrinking and pain in the beautiful young face. So would 
he have fancied an angel to look in the midst of a sinful, 
sorrowing world. 

It was a short drive to the station, and the porter told 
them that a Brighton train was just starting. Hilda asked 
Marmaduke to take her ticket instantly. He did so and led 
her on to the platform. She was grateful for the necessity 
of haste, for the publicity of their position. 

Hilda had hardly taken her seat before the train started. 
As it moved away Marmaduke saw the white face leaning 
back against the cushions, and the great dark eyes looking 
at him with a strange painful sense of entreaty ; then she 
disappeared. There was something in the look so forlorn, so 
entreating, so humble, that he felt doubly miserable as he 
walked away at having been forced to let her go alone. 

Hilda leant back in the seat of the carriage, looking 
mechanically first at the dark station and high narrow streets 

22 


338 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and then at the river dimly seen through the great balustrade 
of the bridge. But after Battersea Park was passed and the 
vast monotonous dulness of London suburbs, and the train 
had escaped into the country, Hilda looking at the fields 
began to cry. Her only companions were two elderly men 
seated at the other end of the carriage talking to each other. 
Hilda turned her head away from them and let the tears flow 
freely. 

She was mourning for Cecilia, mourning for Madge, mourn- 
ing for herself. She had thought when she left Brierly Cottage 
in February that in ten days at least she would be home again. 
It was about seven weeks now since she had seen her mother. 
And what would she have to tell her to-day ? The whole 
story was infinitely terrible to Hilda. Strong upon her was 
the childish wish to wake up and find it all to have been a 
horrible nightmare. She tried to see clearly how the time 
in London had been spent. 

“ I wonder,” she thought, “ how long Madge has been 
thinking of this horrible thing ! I remember she talked 
of Lord Bellasis that first night in London. I wonder 
I was allowed to stay with her. Then the very first time 
Cecilia spoke to me she asked me about Lord Bellasis. 
I might have seen she was jealous of Madge. How 
amazingly stupid I have been. But then why did she make 
me believe that Marmaduke had cared for Madge ? oh, 
dear me, I have believed anything anybody said — what a 
goose they must have thought me ! and Laura — I wonder 
what she knew about it all ? I daresay she has been playing 
with my stupidity too. But I do not know what about. 
The fact is that I am very, very stupid and I can’t understand 
anything now except that Cecilia is dead, and Madge is 
wicked, and I can’t ever be happy again — Marmaduke can’t 
possibly forgive me when he knows how I half engaged 
myself to Mark Fieldes.” 

Long deep-drawn sobs shook her. Her head throbbed 


SILENCE. 


339 


painfully, her mind worked hard. It seemed as if it 
were something apart from herself, another voice talking 
to her that went on far faster than the train did, and 
that spoke louder than the shrill whistle of the engine. 
“ Some girls,” it said, “ might think they were bound to 
Mark, but I am sure I am not, although I have treated 
him very, very badly — it would only be treating him worse 
to go on with it. Shall I write to him ? Oh, I don’t know — 
I will ask mother — I will never do anything on my own 
judgment again. If I never marry Marmaduke I shall love 
him all my life.” 

Then the horror of the thought of Cecilia came back and 
the misery of Madge’s wrong-doing. “And I did nothing 
to help them,” she said to herself again. Her brain was in 
a strange whirl of pain and confusion. She pressed her 
hands on her temples, and her elbows against the little ledge 
below the window. 

She was surprised at suddenly hearing “ Broomhurst ” 
called out as the train stopped, and to find that her 
journey was at an end. She hastily pulled down her 
veil and thrust her handkerchief into her pocket. There 
was a strange familiarity in the little station to her in her 
present state of mind. She was the only thing there in the 
least altered. Avoiding the friendly porter, who would cer- 
tainly want to know why she was without luggage and who 
was happily occupied with some milk cans at the other 
end of the platform, Hilda hurried through the ticket-office, 
crossed the broad road on the other side, and took a little 
foot-path through the fields that led to her home. 

The sun was shining brightly, the larches were green, the 
primroses were thick under the hedges. On such a day, al- 
though only just escaped from the dark wood and at the begin- 
ning of his terrible journey, Dante felt an irrational cheerfulness 
owing to “ L’ora del tempo e la dolce stagione ”. Hilda was out 
of her dark wood of trouble. She was still at the beginning 


340 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


of life, and not like the poet “nell mezzo del camin di nostra 
vita”. In a few moments she would be at home, clasped in her 
mother’s arms. Her life was in reality full of “ sweet records, 
promises as sweet Although her nerves were thoroughly 
shaken, and she had had a rude awakening from her ideal 
of the charms of the world, still as she walks through 
those fields she cannot but feel that there is much hope in 
the good air and the beautiful season, a hope and comfort 
which, with a very new humility and meekness, must bring 
her the peace that men have been commanded to pray for. 
Tears started again to her eyes; but this time they were 
tears of relief and wistfulness, as her parched spirit drank 
freely of the living nature about her. 


CHAPTER XX. 


MADGE AND LAURA ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 

Laura had lunched with the Duchess of A. on that Friday. 
There had been a large party, and every one had noticed her 
unusual animation and brightness. As she drove away to 
keep her appointment with Madge, her day-dreams were of 
the pleasantest. All was at last arranged. The wedding 
would gain a hundredfold from the mysterious secrecy which 
had preceded it. Bellasis was bound to her by cords of steel. 
Madge’s acceptance of the offer of her brougham was an 
additional satisfaction. Laura reached Madge’s house at 
half-past three in the highest spirits. 

Mary had stayed to luncheon and Madge had given a 
general order that she would not be “at home” to any 
visitor. The butler soon after luncheon came in to know 
if she would make the usual exception for Mrs. Hurstmon- 
ceaux. 

“No, certainly not,” said Madge vigorously; “I am at 
home to nobody.” 

“ Mrs. Hurstmonceaux insisted upon my inquiring as she 
particularly wished to see you.” 

“ Is she here ? Why didn’t you say so at once ? ” 

Madge sprang up, then sat down again. Here was the 
influence, the personification of all that she was trying to 
keep behind her mentally. Here was the view in which 
Mary would be simply the object of a beautiful delusion, 
and her parents almost criminal for their sacrifice. Here 
was the view that she, Madge, would be putting an end to 

(341) 


342 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


her own life, to all that made life worth living, and that she 
was incurring also the moral condemnation of a world that 
would not think lightly or without suspicion of a woman 
that could jilt Lord Bellasis. Was she not risking even her 
good name, and could that be right ? 

“ Would you rather I went away if you want to see her ? ” 
Mary spoke hesitatingly. 

“No, no, no,” said Madge with a vehemence that startled 
Mary, but did not startle the butler who knew the state of 
things very fairly well, as such functionaries generally 
do. A surprise however was in store for him. He had 
expected that either Mary or Mrs. Hurstmonceaux would be 
in the ascendant and the other be sent away — but he had 
not supposed that they would meet. 

“ Show her up here, and Mary whatever she says don't 
you go away. She is rather a bore but she won’t stay long.” 

Laura came into the room with a face of exceeding 
sympathy, not at all the ordinary expression suitable to an 
afternoon call. When she saw Mary she composed her 
features, but she was surprised that Madge had admitted 
anybody else after the “ not at home” which she had herself 
never met there before. Madge avoided a kiss and then at 
once said rather solemnly in an unconsciously loud voice : — 

“ This is Mary Riversdale, my sister-in-law ; let me 
introduce her.” 

Laura gasped and actually turned pale with astonishment. 
What could it mean ? The announcement would be in the 
papers next day if it were not forestalled by the evening 
papers of to-day, and yet Mary, George’s intensely CathcjJic 
sister, was closeted with Madge, and she had caught a 
glimpse of the two sitting hand in hand before Madge rose 
to receive her. Laura’s manners failed her for a moment, 
she only stared. 

“ Yes,” said Madge — it excited her to have some living 
thing to combat, and she had often rebelled against the 


MADGE AND LAURA ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 343 

subtle influence which she had never been able to resist 
successfully before — “ Mary has come to spend some days 
with me.” 

What was Madge’s scheme ? What could she be meaning ? 
At this juncture to try and keep friends with the Riversdales 
was idiotic, and nothing would be gained by it. 

“ I just came in to ask you if you would like to dine with 
me quite alone to-night ? Lady Tempest has to put off her 
dinner because she has influenza, and so I shall be at home 
and quite alone, as my husband dines elsewhere.” 

Laura was too quick not to perceive a difference in 
Madge’s manner. The dull weight that had appeared to 
oppress her during the past fortnight was gone. She seemed 
excited and overstrung. 

“No,” said Madge, looking straight at her, fighting the 
creeping kind of atmospheric influence which seemed to be 
growing stronger. “ No, I’m so sorry I can’t ; I’m going 
to St. Philip’s to-night with Mary, it is the eve of one of 
our feasts, and you know we always go to confession on 
such eves.” 

An alarming light began to dawn upon Laura. 

‘'Always, dear Madge ? ” she said with a touch of irony. 

Madge flushed. 

“ The fact is, Laura, that my plans are quite altered by 
some news Mary has brought me. She is going to be a 
Sister of Charity. She is going to China to pick up babies.” 
She hesitated, then ended defiantly : “ I shall spend the last 
months with her ”. 

Laura knew quite well what Madge had said, and now she 
understood plainly what she meant. It was clear that for 
the moment Madge had reverted to her religious beliefs and 
meant to give up her engagement. And Laura was wholly 
unprepared for such a crisis. She wanted to gain time for 
thought. She turned round, and for the first time looked 
at Mary. It might have been embarrassing and painful to 


344 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE 


hear her vocation mentioned in this way ; but Mary was far 
too much interested and astonished by what was passing to 
think of herself. She laughed a little. 

“ Perhaps I shan’t be allowed to go for the babies,” she 
said. 

Laura, for a moment, was lost in studying Mary. She 
was thinking of Fieldes’ account of the fair girl who rode so 
straight to hounds. She seemed to have no further atten- 
tion for Madge. She saw now who was the enemy, and she 
admired her unwillingly. But it was impossible surely for 
this girl to ruin Madge’s life. She must be cautious. What 
did this Miss Riversdale know of the state of things ? It 
would not be safe to be explicit, yet an instinct told her that 
she must speak to Madge at once, if she were not to lose her 
influence for ever afterwards. 

“ Ah,” she said, speaking to Mary, that is very beautiful, 
very supporting, you are carried on by wonderful enthusiasms. 
It is very noble. I congratulate you with all my heart, but 
I confess I can conceive harder things than that. I wouldn’t 
speak of the work at our doors, of the workers one knows 
and helps in one’s own small way, picking up the gutter 
babies. I think, if I were called, London would be my China. 
But I don’t mean that. All babies are human,” — she hesitated 
a moment. She felt that she was in danger of talking non- 
sense. “ But there is something harder than living for babies. 
That is living without the call, the enthusiasm, without all 
that makes a glory round you now, having to live in this 
world and to be supposed to belong to it and yet, in fact, to 
sacrifice life, hope, joy, to conscience perhaps — or perhaps,” 
she hesitated again, and half kneeling on a low chair by 
her, looked beyond Mary, and as if speaking only to herself, 
her voice falling to a penetrating whisper, she concluded, 
“ perhaps to some poor scruple, a futile and tragic mistake.” 

There was a silence, unbroken by her listeners, and then, 
with a ring of genuine feeling, she went on : — 


MADGE AND LAURA ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 345 

“ The years of life are much longer than you can under- 
stand as yet. There are more days in them as life goes on 
than in younger years, and more hours in the day, far 
longer hours in the night. That is why, at my age, one 
trembles at seeing the young make a life’s mistake. I 
should not feel it for you — if you will forgive a personal 
allusion from a stranger in a peculiar moment. Your life 
has had a single purpose, one motifs one trend, one current. 
It may be hard at times, it will never be confused, weary, 
trivial. I understand your Church providing this high, rare- 
fied, pure atmosphere for you. But for others is she not 
at times terribly hard ? Is it even safe to say to a young 
woman of keen vitality, with rich human gifts, ‘ I forbid 
you from a stern iron law of my own, for which I will give 
you no reason, forbid you to take love, joy, power, success ; 

I forbid you although ’ ” She turned towards Madge, and 

her voice was imploring, “ I can’t go on like this. I am not 
a diplomatist. Madge, what will your life be if you yield to 
this superstitious madness? You can’t be as if this had 
not been. Are you facing in the least what your conduct 
means ? If you had not given your word — but you have, 
and most solemnly. Why, good heavens, it is too late even 
for privacy.” 

Madge did not speak, but she winced for a moment, then 
lay down deliberately on the sofa and shut her eyes. But 
Laura detected something besides a suggestion of imper- 
tinence in her attitude; it seemed to her that Madge was 
taking refuge. 

“ After all you had suffered in the past, you had this year 
enjoyed your life a little — you had won for yourself a unique 
social position by your wonderful goodness.” 

“ Or my want of it,” interrupted Madge in a sleepy voice, 
and a faint smile of sarcasm passed over her white face. 

That last touch of Laura’s was a relapse into her ordinary 
self ; it weakened a strong point. 


346 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“But,” a little impatience helped Laura now, “but the best 
of us have enemies” — Madge stirred perceptibly — “waiting 
ready for our mistakes.” 

Cecilia was the unspoken word that filled both their minds, 
and Laura trembled. Had she played her trump card too soon ? 

Madge’s head moved restlessly. She opened her eyes to 
avoid the mental picture of Cecilia, radiant, triumphant ; 
Cecilia, Lady Bellasis. No faint shudder, no warning chill 
from the spirit world came now. Laura’s personality per- 
haps guarded that moment free. Madge met the glance from 
Laura’s inscrutable long narrow eyes and she felt its power. 
But her own passed to Mary who stood with an expression 
of bewildered astonishment, with wide open blue eyes and 
a slightly wrinkled forehead. The contrast was so marked, 
and Mary’s earnest puzzled effort to understand the extra- 
ordinary being in front of her who used words she had never 
heard of, and who spoke as if Madge were a saint, came with 
such a new effect on Madge’s overwrought nerves that it 
produced a sensation of smothered laughter. 

“ Mary,” she gasped, holding out her hand, “come here. 
Will you rub my temples with that eau de Cologne, They 
ache. No, come over this side, and sit on that chair ; that is 
right, only a little harder please. But don’t let us interrupt 
you, Laura. I think I understand so far. You were telling me 
about my friends, I mean to say my enemies, weren’t you ? 
I should like you to say all you want to now, as I don’t feel 
sure that we shall meet for some time.” 

She hesitated and put up a hand to take hold of Mary’s 
and clasped it tightly. 

“ You are going to the Riviera, perhaps,” there was a 
break in her voice, “you will yacht with friends in the 
Mediterranean. I hope,” the pressure of her hand was 
tighter on Mary’s, “ you will enjoy it. I shall be,” her eyes 
filling with tears looked up at Mary imploringly, “ I shall 
be at Skipton.” 


MADGE AND LAURA ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 347 


Laura rose from the chair she had been kneeling on : no 
one had asked her to sit down. She stood at her full height 
and faced the two young women, sternly determined to keep 
her long-conquered and enslaved temper well in hand now. 
But her words were not well chosen. 

“ Good God,” she cried, with absolute conviction, “ if you 
do break your word, you will rue it to your dying day.” 

“ But on my dying day itself, Mary ? she forgets that; 
doesn’t she?” Madge sat up suddenly for a moment; her 
voice had risen higher. Mary was afraid she was going to 
break down. 

Laura looked at Mary. It was of no use to do more, unless 
she could get her away. But Mary was pressing her hand 
firmly on Madge’s forehead just above the closed eyes. 
Then, to their surprise, in a jerky half-whisper, Madge said 
abruptly : — 

“And you will have a dying day too you know, Laura”. 

Laura treated this absurd interjection with quiet dignity. 
It was evidently of no use to stay, as Madge was becoming 
hysterical, and something might still be done in a letter. 
She bent over the sofa and kissed her with a mingled severity 
and tenderness that was almost maternal. She shook hands 
with Mary over the prostrate form between them and went 
away. 

As soon as she had left the room Madge apostrophised the 
closed door almost with violence. 

“ You’re gone,” she cried, “ and never, never, never shall 
you darken these doors again.” But the door remained 
unmoved as the stately if not graceful figure of Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux left the house. 

Madge then rang the bell ; the butler reappeared. 

“No evening papers are to be admitted into the house 
to-night on any account.” 

“ No, madam,” was the solemn answer, and he conscien- 
tiously resolved that nobody should see them but himself. 


348 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Madge,” said Mary, “ that was a very odd woman, wasn’t 
she ? ” 

“ Stark staring mad,” said Madge, looking up. 

“And what made you tell her that I had come to stay 
with you ? ” 

“ Because you have,” rejoined Madge passionately. 

“ But, Madge, I really don’t think I can. It would hurt 
mother.” 

Madge looked at her for a moment, and then began to cry. 
A fit of hysterical sobbing followed of so violent a kind that 
when Mary consented to stay she hardly seemed to under- 
stand her. 

Mary was peaceful and happy. But there still rested on 
her mind a shade of anxiety. She felt instinctively that 
the feelings which had triumphed in the inconstant little 
heart might hold their place by a fragile tenure. She saw 
that her presence seemed almost a necessity to Madge. But 
this could not last for ever. She could only pray that the 
grace, which had done so much, might yet do more — that 
feeling and purpose might be deepened and prove constant. 


CHAPTER XXL 


LORD BELLASIS MEETS MARK FIELDES ON THE TWENTY- 
FOURTH. 

Mark Fieldes had been quite upset in the morning by the 
news. He had met Dr. Rule by accident, and learnt it from 
him. Fieldes had felt very shaky. He had not been able 
to write, and — quite an unusual thing for him — he went to 
the Reform Club in the middle of the morning, and had a 
brandy and soda. At the club he met a particular crony of 
his, a man who was sure to be found there before twelve. 
The news had not yet reached the club. He confided the 
tragedy to his crony as a matter that had quite unnerved 
him. His friend, Barclay by name, was shocked, but also 
curious. Fieldes was mysterious. An hour passed in this 
way, and then another man came in who had also heard 
of the death from Dr. Rule. Cecilia was well known and 
popular, the sensation was growing. 

“ What on earth did it mean ? ” 

“ Good heavens, what could have driven her crazy ? ” 

“ Could it have been an accident ? ” 

“ Had there been a scandal ? ” 

The talk was at its height when Lord Bellasis came upon 
them. There was a sudden silence, and a “Hush” from 
Fieldes which was unmistakable. Bellasis thought that 
his engagement to Madge must be getting known. This 
sort of thing was unpleasant, he had better get away at 
once. What did that cad Fieldes mean by his “Hush”? 

It was d d impertinent. Bellasis took up the paper, but 

( 349 ) 


350 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


he was too annoyed to read. In a few moments the group 
round Fieldes had melted away and moved off to another 
part of the room. Fieldes could not take his eyes off 
Bellasis. Had he or had he not heard the news ? That 
was the question he wished to have solved. 

Bellasis knew that Fieldes was looking at him, and he 
lost his temper. He was particularly resentful of Mark’s 
part in the stories about Madge. He strode across the room 
to him in an evident passion. 

May I ask,” he said with sardonic ceremoniousness, “ if 
you intend to convey by your persistent glance that you 
wish to speak to me ? ” 

Fieldes was morally a terrier matched against a Newfound- 
land in confronting Bellasis. But he had a spite against 
the man, and he was sure that he had the sting in his own 
power. Even terriers have their day. 

“ No,” he said distinctly, “I have no such wish, but I own 
I was wondering if you had heard the news that Dr. Rule 
told me this morning.” 

“ News ! ” cried Bellasis who was little accustomed to being 

confronted by such as Fieldes. “ What d d news do 

you mean ? What is it to me ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Fieldes. “ It is only that Miss Cecilia 
Rupert committed suicide last night.” 

Fieldes, having delivered his fire, moved off. Bellasis 
was a strong man, and he knew he was being watched, 
hut for a moment he remained rooted to the spot. Then 
he gathered himself together and walked out of the room. 
He went downstairs slowly, called a hansom and drove off. 
He thought he had shown nothing. He was not conscious 
that he was driving to Grosvenor Square bareheaded. 

There was something in his gloomy face which made it 
impossible for the old hall-porter at Bellasis’ House, who 
had known him from a child, to call attention to the missing 
hat. 


LORD BELLASIS MEETS MARK FIELDES. 35 1 


Lord Bellasis seated himself heavily at his writing-table, 
rang for his valet, and stretched out his hand, groping 
blindly among a mass of papers in front of him. The man 
ventured to put some telegraph forms within reach. Bellasis 
buried his face in his hands and remained immovable. Then 
after some minutes of silence, he muttered : — 

“ Take the forms, Bennett, and wire to make all ready for 
me to go on board the yacht to-night. I shall leave you here 
— to postpone all that was arranged for the wedding.” 

Then turning round, he concluded with a firm and distinct 
utterance : “ Postpone, not countermand it, and mind, no 
newspaper paragraphs. You will, of course, after to-day, 
apply for further orders to Mr. Howman ” (mentioning his 
private secretary). 

“ Yes, my lord,” Bennett had reiterated at every fresh 
injunction. “ And am I to follow you, my lord ? ” 

“ No, — yes,” said Lord Bellasis in an abstracted tone. “ As 
to the future ” but the sentence was not concluded. 

“ As to the future, my lord ? ” at length ventured Bennett. 

‘^The future,” said Lord Bellasis with a start, “the future 
is passed.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” said Bennett with decision, abandoning a 
conversation that was evidently fruitless. Nor did he trouble 
his master with any further interruption. 

An hour later, Lord Bellasis rang his bell and gave a 
letter for the post, addressed to Mrs. George Riversdale. 
This letter held the few lines in which he told Madge, in 
irregular handwriting, that the wedding must inevitably be 
postponed in consequence of Cecilia’s death. 

Strangely enough, it was almost at the same moment that 
Madge, still all unknowing of the tragedy, was writing to 
him in order to break off their engagement. 

Madge wrote the brief note in a firm hand. She asked 
his pardon, and told him simply, without giving any reason, 
that the marriage was impossible. He would know well 


352 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


enough why. She stamped it and addressed it to the 
Travellers’ Club. He received the letter in his yacht, off 
Malta, two weeks afterwards. He looked at it long enough 
to make sure of the date on the notepaper and on the 
envelope. “It was just after hearing of the death,” he said, 
“and it crossed mine.” Then he folded it, put it inside a 
novel he was holding, and dropped the book into the blue 
waters of the Mediterranean. 

Had Madge’s letter come before he heard of the tragedy, 
it would have been a very heavy blow. But that news had 
given him a shock the degree of which he had not yet fully 
fathomed. His nature seemed dulled ; his capacity for fresh 
pain blunted. 

A moody English ^'-milord''' made his appearance at 
several towns on the Italian coast during the weeks that 
followed. He did not stay long at any, but at each he was 
the object of some curiosity. It transpired through his 
servant that he had been disappointed in love. To the curious 
onlooker he seemed restless and very gloomy. He was 
mourning evidently for the woman he had lost. Was it for 
a woman he had loved very dearly, but whose scruples for- 
bade her to marry him ? Or was it for one who — as he 
realised all too late — had loved him as he craved to be loved, 
but was now lost to him for ever ? 

Fieldes would hardly have been able to eat his luncheon 
alone that Friday. Fortunately he was engaged to a 
luncheon party. He was so obviously oppressed that his 
hostess rallied him on his low spirits. 

Fieldes looked round the table and then said in a low 
tone : — 

“ I have heard something particularly shocking which has 
upset me a good deal ”. 

Instantly the company hung upon his lips. He told the 
facts well and concisely. There was a chorus of comments 


LORD BELLASIS MEETS MARK FIELDES. 353 


and astonishment. Fieldes was too mysterious, and too 
languid and depressed, to enter into the excitement. Every- 
body felt that he knew more than he said. Then under cover 
of the general discussion he told his neighbour in a low voice 
how he had had to break it to Bellasis, and how Bellasis had 
left the club without his hat. The lady said that of course 
he must feel it after all one had seen and known. One 
couldn’t imagine that Lord Bellasis could be quite callous. 
The rest of the table gradually became silent in their anxiety 
to hear more. Fieldes spoke aloud. 

“The fact was,” he said, “ that Miss Rupert had become 
very hysterical lately, and had had a craze about her health. 
This very morning she was to have been examined by Dr. 
Rule. When he arrived,” there was the slightest break in 
Fieldes’ voice here, “he certified that she was dead — had 
been dead many hours. Probably she had taken the chloro- 
form about eleven o’clock. This hysteria is becoming one 
of the most alarming symptoms in our growing civilisation.” 

Nobody in the least believed this explanation, and Mark’s 
manner conveyed that he wanted to put them off the true 
scent. 

After luncheon Fieldes had the much coveted honour of 
being drawn into a tete-a-tete with Lady L., a beautiful 
woman, and undoubtedly the most important person present. 
It was felt to be only natural that Lady L. should have 
him to herself. Never before had she shown the least anxiety 
for his company, and Mark fully appreciated the situation. 
He told her all that he knew, though he did not let her 
think that it was by any means all. In Lady L.’s company, 
under the light of her earnest beautiful eyes, Mark’s own 
real feelings came out. He had been very much shocked 
and upset by the news of Cecilia’s death. 

“ I see now,” he said, “ how much all in her was tending 
towards this end. You know that Cecilia Rupert was 
entirely without faith. She was brought up to disbelieve in 

23 


354 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


the Christian dogmas, in Christian ethics, in Christian 
views of life. She did not, like some of us, grieve deeply 
over the greatest loss that man or woman can sustain. I 
think a woman’s mind cannot resign itself to dwell among 
shadows. It craves after a completeness which to us 
others seems utterly unattainable. Cecilia Rupert would 
not regret what she could not believe in. If it were not 
true it was hateful. It is not original in me. Lady L., to 
think that Christianity is a necessity for such women. 
It is the old saying of Voltaire, that if there had not been a 
God He must have been invented. I think that if you will 
forgive niy calling it so, the greatest invention of the world, 
Christianity, came out of its dire necessity and chiefly from 
its necessity for women. Cecilia broke down under our 
present conditions of life. She was developed by all that 
Christianity has claimed for woman, the highest educa- 
tion and a spiritual equality with man. Give this highly 
developed sensitive organisation, and take away from it all 
that makes suffering endurable and all that restrains the 
thirst for immediate happiness. Cecilia coolly counted up 
what was worth having, — love, success, pleasure. I never 
saw anybody drink a glass of champagne with more anxiety 
to get every sip of enjoyment out of it. She played her 
game. She had you know one great wish — you know, too, 
that it was thwarted. At the same time there grew upon 
her a suspicion that great bodily pain might be in store for 
her. Now does it seem to you wonderful that she should 
choose death rather than wait for it to come ? We know 
now that she was probably wrong. There was in fact. Dr. 
Rule thinks, no disease ; and even on the strongest hereditary 
disease theory we must remember that there are many 
cross currents of heredity in any family — innumerable 
diseases to choose from ! We have mothers and grand- 
parents as well as fathers. Then, too, there are so many 
other things to die of, fevers and accidents. You and I 


LORD BELLASIS MEETS MARK FIELDES. 355 


then know that Cecilia was unreasonable. But we are not 
surprised at her being unreasonable. We are not surprised 
at her thinking that she should never recover her disap- 
pointment, her broken heart as she thought it. We have 
known many women like that ; but we have not known 
many women who held nothing to be sacred but their own 
happiness. We shall get to know them, Lady L. Twenty 
years hence you and I may have met many other Cecilias. 
Only,” he looked at her earnestly and with fervour, “ it is 
to you and such as you that we look to diminish the number, 
to extend the circle of faith and light, and to prevent such 
tragedies as that of last night.” 

Lady L. was too much moved to speak. In that hour 
of genuine feeling Fieldes had made one of his rare con- 
quests among great ladies. Lady L. had become his friend : 
and though there were to come days when she thought him 
almost intolerably wanting in tact, the recollection of the 
better side he had once shown her kept secure for him the 
entrh into one of the best houses in London. 

Fieldes happily for himself after that made his adieux 
and got himself quietly away. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 

As Fieldes walked away from the luncheon party his own 
words grew upon him. “ Yes,” he thought, “ it is to 
Christian women that we owe what peace and happiness 
we possess.” 

Hilda’s image seemed very beautiful and dear to him 
to-day. He had secured for himself the love of a Christian 
woman, one who would idealise her service of himself as 
a loving, tender wife. She would be such another as 
Lady L. ; and Lady L. and her friends would be in love 
with Hilda’s cleverness and her simplicity, and all the 
men would be envious of her large luminous eyes. He 
wished he had hinted to Lady L. that he was engaged to 
Hilda Riversdale. He had passed by Grosvenor Crescent 
that morning, and as he went he had dreamed that possibly 
with Hilda’s fortune he might be able to live even there. 
Inspiring thought ! He had not seen her since the night of 
the ball, as he had been obliged to leave London early 
next day. 

Little did he imagine what a reprieve his absence had been 
to Hilda. Strangely enough he had been quite satisfied with 
that night’s work. He had been too much pleased with their 
conversation at the ball to attribute her abrupt “Good-night” 
to anything but maidenly embarrassment. He was dwelling 
on that night now, while he walked along by the river in the 
direction of St. Paul’s, when he saw Marmaduke coming 
towards him. Marmaduke appeared grave and anxious, 

(356) 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 357 

and even Fieldes’ perceptions were not subtle enough at 
the moment to see that in reality he was not looking as 
gloomy to-day as he had been of late. Fieldes’ bearing 
towards Marmaduke in these days betrayed the consciousness 
of a successful rival. Fieldes asked him at once if he had 
heard about Cecilia. 

“ Yes,” was the answer, “ I had a note from her last night 
telling me to go and see her. It must have been written just 
before she did it. I went to the house and I found she 
was dead.” 

Marmaduke did not care to speak further on the subject to 
this man. Fieldes was beginning again, but Marmaduke 
checked him. “ I have a bit of family news to-day,” he 
said, “Mrs. Riversdale and my cousin have come to London 
and my cousin is going to be a Sister of Charity.” 

“ Indeed,” cried Fieldes, “ how very interesting.” 

“ It is curious,” said Marmaduke, speaking on a sudden 
impulse and eyeing him keenly, “ that the heiress of the 
family should go into religion. I hope she may be allowed 
by the trustees to leave a little to help Hilda and her mother, 
as they are hard up.” 

Fieldes’ face was a study. He quite lost his head and said 
with the greatest simplicity : — 

“ I thought Miss Hilda Riversdale was an heiress also”. 

A faint smile came over Marmaduke’s face. The man 
really was delightful ! Was it possible, was it conceivable 
that Hilda had ever cared for him ? Marmaduke nodded 
and passed on leaving Fieldes standing. 

Mark recovered himself, and walked on, at first rapidly: 
then his pace slackened. It was not worth while to walk 
quickly any more than to do anything else, quickly or slowly. 

It was all over then between him and Hilda — she was not 
what he had supposed. The golden aureole was not about 
her — she was in fact actually poor. He breathed a sigh of 
relief as he remembered that they were not engaged, but the 


358 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


relief was only on the surface of the gloom he was feeling. 
Had he been in love with her ? Undoubtedly yes, and he 
was thankful to give her up because she had no money. He 
was not even sure if the news of her poverty had not taken 
off the bloom of his personal feeling for her. That quivering, 
sensitive mouth, those eyes that lit up with a light he 
knew so well how to call into them, would he enjoy them 
now ? Hardly : for they had become so interwoven with a 
future of luxury, ease and success, in his fertile fancy, that 
he could not tell how much his enjoyment of them had de- 
pended on what he believed she could give him. Oh ! how 
he scorned himself as his pitiless analysis went forward. 
He could imagine such high ideals of love : he had painted 
to Hilda such a pure noble courtship of which he was in 
reality entirely incapable. 

All day long in the background of his mind he had been 
threatened with one of the fits of deep depression against 
which he had often to struggle. The thought of Cecilia had 
been near him. He had tried to drown it in talk. He had 
often drowned other strong impressions by talking of them, 
but this one would not be dimmed. He and she had spoken 
together so often of their weariness of life. They had said 
extravagant things, they had piled up horrors, so that their 
fancies might make them laugh at each other’s wit to prevent 
their feeling each other’s sadness. They wanted to make it all 
feel unreal by force of exaggeration. And now that beautiful, 
brilliant woman had gone down before it, had been defeated 
by sorrow and suffering. And what was there to prevent 
defeat ? What was there to save himself from such a defeat 
as Cecilia’s ? It was true that he could not love as she had 
loved. But would that save him from suffering ? It was not 
only love that had made her kill herself, it was the agonised 
fear of physical suffering, the distorted vision of an all- 
absorbing egotism. And had not he too to suffer some day. 
As she used to say, “ Life is a mortal illness ”. Suffering lay 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 359 

in wait for him too; and even if he had no morbid imaginings 
of present disease, must it not come in time ? did not each 
hour bring it nearer ? Yes, the gloom was about him, was 
gathering thicker and closer. It was a darkness to be felt. 
What was there to cheer him ? He had lost Hilda — he had 
lost hope of the domestic hearth whose light and sweetness 
would have made a charmed circle, within which these 
demons of nervous sensation could have been kept at arm’s 
length. He had not even the wholesome lover’s sorrow, the 
tender pathos of which would have been warm and consoling 
compared to his present state of mind. 

And in this particular fit of horror he turned to the thought 
of religion, reflecting on what he had often described, and 
described eloquently, the mystery of the conquest of faith 
over pain. 

But to-day the curse of his own fluency seemed to have 
spoilt such thoughts for his own use. He was dwelling on 
his latest articles on the religious ideal, when a more acute, 
more clear thought seemed to come out of them ; — the 
thought, not of sweetness, light, enthusiasm, “ of the stream 
of tendency that makes for righteousness,” but of the other 
side of the shield ; the sense not of a subjective notion, but 
of a possible objective power, with retributive menacing 
complete sway over himself and his destiny. Strangely 
enough there was something in this which was almost a relief. 
Such a fear was more human, less void, less lonely. 

“ I once met a man who said he would rather be damned 
than be annihilated,” he said to himself with a wan smile. 
“ I don’t agree, for that would end it all. But it is awful to 
be alive and to be alone as I am ! If it were true that there 
were a Judge who really existed. He would approve as well 
as condemn. Love would grow near to fear. And the human 
instinct to value life which failed Cecilia would not be part of 
a great illusion. We should gain in hope as well as in fear.” 

But Mark was very tired. 


36 o 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


It had been an hour of acute mental suffering. It had 
begun in disappointment, self-disgust, discouragement as to 
worldly success. It had led him on to the questions that lay 
at the root of his very existence, and the pain had been 
intense. Suddenly a tall footman became visible to him, 
and his highly civilised bowing figure gave a sense almost 
of physical comfort. He was still in a world in which were 
luxury and smart footmen — in the best conceivably fitting 
coats, and with the most intelligently deferential bows. He 
pulled himself together — he must be worthy of the footman. 

“ Mrs. Hurstmonceaux is in the carriage,” the man indi- 
cated a brougham at the other side of the wide pavement. 

More light, more consolation, the sight of Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux in her beautiful demi-saison cloak, looking eagerly 
towards him out of that perfect brougham. 

“ Come, Mark, get in,” she said, when he came within 
earshot. “ I want you.” 

“And I want you,” he said, with a poor attempt at a 
sprightly manner. 

The moment Mark had fitted himself into Mrs. Hurst- 
monceaux’ brougham she began to speak : — 

“ Have you heard the news ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Mark with a shiver. 

Laura was too full of her own train of thought to notice 
his face. 

“ But I am entirely puzzled,” she went on. “ I think it 
must all have been stopped. It is madness.” 

“ Stopped,” said Mark ; “ do you mean hushed up ? ” 

“ It is too late to hush it up,” said Laura impatiently ; 
“ that is what is so annoying.” 

“ But you can’t keep a thing of that kind dark, Mrs. 
Hurstmonceaux. It is out of the question, it always comes 
out through the doctors. And then there must be an in- 
quest.” 

“ Inquest — doctors — Mark, what are you talking of? ” 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 36 1 

“ That,” said Mark, pointing to a news-boy, who was 
carrying a bundle of papers. On the placard was written 
between two other announcements : — 

“ Startling Discovery. 

Suicide in High Life.” 

“ Who is it ? ” said Laura. “ But I have no time for other 
people’s affairs to-day. Haven’t you heard of Madge’s en- 
gagement to Lord Bellasis ? And I have just been to see 
her, and she is closeted with Miss Mary Riversdale and is 
talking of going to confession to-night. It is maddening.” 

Mark was silent for a moment. He knew now what 
Laura had been working for. He pitied her when she should 
know the first fruits of her success. 

“ Hadn’t you heard of it ? ” Laura repeated. 

“And you have not heard who it was who killed herself? 
It was Miss Cecilia Rupert.” 

Mark looked out of the window. Laura sank back and 
they drove on in silence. A few moments later she leant 
forward and let down the window near her, as if in want 
of air. As she did so, she said in a very quiet voice to 
Mark : — 

“ How very foolish of Cecilia. This explains Madge's 
conduct.” 

Such calmness entirely surprised Mark, but it was a relief 
to him. He returned to his ordinary manner, but before he 
could speak, Laura began a sharp quick questioning as to 
all he knew, as to what Dr. Rule had said, and as to who 
else knew of the death. She cross-questioned him as to the 
exact moment at which Lord Bellasis had received the news, 
at what moment Dr. Rule had been called to the house, and 
what Marmaduke had said. 

At last she went on : — 

“ I cannot quite understand it. I suppose Madge must 
have known this before I saw her just now, and that either 


362 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


she or Lord Bellasis has broken off the engagement in con- 
sequence of Cecilia’s action.” She shivered. 

“ When was the engagement to be announced ? ” he asked. 

“ It was to be in the papers to-morrow ; and yet she has 
just told me that she is going to Skipton for some weeks, 
whereas they were to have been married privately in three 
days by special licence.” 

“ Special licence ? ” inquired Mark. 

“ Yes, it is far the best plan with a marriage like that ; 
there is such a fuss about even an innocent divorcee being 
married now.” 

“ Lord Bellasis a divorcee ? ” cried Mark in astonishment. 

Laura did not seem to notice that she was being indiscreet. 
She talked on mechanically. 

“ Yes, and that was of course the whole difficulty. This 
is why Cecilia’s conduct so much puzzles me. Knowing 
what objections and difficulties there were, I wonder she 
didn’t wait to see if the marriage would take place at all. 
If she had told the secret of his former wife’s existence, 
all the Roman Catholics would have done their utmost to 
prevent the marriage. This very unpleasant violence of hers 
may have put a stop to it ; I think it has. But what good 
has it done her ? ” 

“ Strange,” said Mark, “ it must have been from some 
notion of honour I think, or perhaps — yes, I think that is 
most likely,” his dramatic interest in the story growing 
upon him. “ She felt that it was no use to separate them if 
he really loved Madge ; she was capable of a kind of complete 
despair, of a sense of fate that is unusual. And you think 
it has divided them already ? Her spirit has come between 
them. How indeed could they meet over such a heca- 
tomb?” 

“ I don’t know ; don’t be dramatic, for goodness sake ! All 
I know is that Madge met me as if we had had no secret, no 
plans in common ; that she seemed devoted to her ultra- 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 363 

Catholic sister-in-law, who is going out to China in some 
sisterhood, and that they are going to their confession at 
St. Philip’s Church to-night. Yet nothing about Madge 
suggested that she knew of Cecilia’s death.” 

“ I suppose that she does not know of it,” said Mark. 
“ Depend upon it. Miss Riversdale has come up to stop this 
engagement — you know they would think it a most shock- 
ing sin — and has succeeded. Mary Riversdale is an angel ; 
it is a beautiful idea.” 

"Mark, you are insufferable,” cried Laura in a voice of 
more natural wrath than he had ever heard her use before ; 
" how can you talk of beautiful ideas to-day ? ” 

Mark reverted to Cecilia. 

"I wonder when she first heard of the engagement,” he 
said. 

There was a moment’s silence, then Laura spoke, turnings 
her face full upon him. 

" I told her yesterday morning.” 

Mark never forgot the look in that subtle, hardened face, 
as it was turned towards him ; the pain in it froze him. What- 
ever had been the history of the soul which showed itself to 
him now, whatever moral cruelties it had hitherto inflicted 
without shrinking, it was at this moment a prey to agony ; 
and it asked for no help, looked for no comfort. 

" Good God,” cried Mark, and shrank back in the 
brougham. 

“ Shall I drop you here ? ” asked Laura and she pulled 
the check string. She had noticed, as he had not, that they 
were just opposite to the Reform Club. 

He went upstairs mechanically and crossing the library 
stood at a window ; his eyes vacantly following the gay 
crowd as it passed along Pall Mall, glittering in the spring 
sunshine. 

"What a queer fellow that is,” thought an acquaintance 
who watched him as he stood there. " I wonder what he is- 


364 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


muttering ? ” Mark was repeating to himself a verse that 
often haunted him : — 

Bright else and fast the stream of life may roll 
And no man may the other’s hurt behold, 

Yet each will have one anguish, his own soul. 

Which perishes from cold. 

It may seem strange that throughout that afternoon no 
news, no rumour, reached Madge of the death of Cecilia 
Rupert. And yet who was there intimate enough to tell her, 
among those who knew of it, except Marmaduke ? In fact 
he was the one person who did mean to do so, though he 
shrank from the task. He could not imagine what her state 
of mind would be. Now that he had heard that she intended 
to make a marriage that he knew she must believe to be 
sacrilegious, Madge had become a new person, a stranger 
in his eyes. She was not in the least what he had supposed 
her to be. And he was filled too with a great sense of 
indignation at wrong done to Cecilia. He felt that Madge 
was to blame, was horribly to blame, for her death. He 
felt towards Madge the repugnance he might have felt 
towards an actual murderer. If he must go and tell her, and 
he thought he ought not to leave her to the chance of seeing 
it in the papers, he had no intention of sparing her. Yes, 
he would go and let her know what she had done, what 
were the first fruits of her unhallowed engagement. It 
might be possible that the shock of such a death would save 
her from destruction, would change her heart even now. 
But he felt at the time as if it were almost unfair that Madge 
should be saved by such means. She didn’t deserve much 
^race, he thought, as he made up his mind to go and see 
her and get it over. 

But then he remembered that he had promised to see his 
aunt early in the afternoon, and he thought he would go 
there first. 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 365 

After he had met Mark and left him standing bewildered 
in the street, Marmaduke called a hansom and drove to the 
little hotel in Dover Street where Mrs. Riversdale was 
staying. He found her sitting by the round table in the 
middle of the stiff, gaudy room, upright as ever in a red 
velvet chair, with her perpetual needlework in her hands. 
She raised a sad yet peaceful face to Marmaduke’s darkened 
countenance, and he experienced a sudden relief and comfort 
in her presence, such as he had never felt before. It was 
not merely a certain sister’s likeness to his mother that 
struck him : it was the sense that comes over most of us at 
times when we are with people who, with however many tire- 
some faults, in the main have never failed consciously to live 
for duty and for conscience’ sake. With his horror at 
Cecilia’s death, his disgust with Madge, his utter contempt 
for Mark, the world seemed, with the exception of his love, 
to be a black and hateful place, where men and women were 
greedy and cruel, and fate was dark about them. Thus this 
quiet figure of his aunt, reminding him of the long record 01 
her life at Skipton, was grateful to him. That quiet dull 
action of her sewing was suggestive to him of duties done 
and of an habitual patience which had schemed little for 
others and grasped at nothing for herself. It had been a long 
education in patience that had made possible her last and 
greatest sacrifice — for there was a heroism in her readiness 
to give up Mary that could have sprung out of no thin 
or poor soil. 

Not quite so explicit as this, however, was Marmaduke’s 
thought as he sat down by his aunt and asked when she had 
got back from the convent at Mill Hill ? 

“ At two o’clock,” she replied, “ and I expected to find 
Mary.” 

“ Where can she be ? ” asked Marmaduke. 

“ There is a note from her,” holding out as she spoke a 
sheet of paper on which Mary had written in pencil : — 


366 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


“ Dear Mother, 

“ I must stay here to-day. Madge is in great 
trouble and danger, and I can’t leave her. It makes me so 
unhappy to think that you came back to the hotel tired and 
found me not returned. I do hope I shall get back to you 
this evening after I have taken Madge to St. Philip’s as she 
wishes to go to confession.” 

There was no signature to the hastily folded piece of paper. 

“ Then Madge does know,” thought Marmaduke, coming 
to the same conclusion as Laura’s had been when Mark told 
her the news. 

He leant his elbow on the showy tapestry cloth that 
covered the table and rested his head on his hand. Mary 
was with Madge, and he would not be wanted. It was an 
immense relief. 

Mrs. Riversdale looked at him in silence for a few 
moments, then she said a little irritably : — 

“ What does it mean ? ” 

Marmaduke was not intimate with his aunt — he never had 
been. She was not sympathetic to youth in general, and 
in Marmaduke’s case she had always felt a little unacknow- 
ledged jealousy, not so much because she had heard him 
praised more than George could ever be praised, but because 
she had known in her heart that he was the better man of 
the two. A moment’s reflection made him conclude that 
she ought to be told all, and it was easier to him to speak 
out with the softer impression he had just received of her, 
and of the peace that seemed to be about her. 

It was easier after the start than he had expected, and he 
told her the whole story from beginning to end. After all, 
secluded though her life had been, and unreceptive as her 
faculties might be compared to others, she had lived many 
more years than Marmaduke had, and he felt as if instead 
of her being startled out of measure with the tale of a sacri- 
legious marriage — now he hoped no longer thought of — and 


LAURA DRIVES MARK TO THE REFORM CLUB. 367 

an actual suicide, she was more able to locate them in her life’s 
philosophy than he was. He would have expected her to be 
prepared for more iniquity on Madge’s part than he had 
been, but she said quietly : — 

“ She wasn’t a good wife and she was a misfortune to us. 
Mary has saved her now, or this poor crazy girl’s death has. 
But she has the faith, and in any case she would never 
have gone through with this marriage. And as to poor 
Miss Rupert, if she wasn’t crazy as she seems to have been, 
she did commit a great sin. But these unfortunate people 
know so little about God.” 

Then seeing the pain in the young man’s face deepening 
as she spoke openly of what he had shrunk from in thought, 
she made one more effort. 

“ You don’t know,” she said, trying to remember Father 
Clement’s words to her after her son’s death, “ you don’t 
know what God may have done in her soul at the very end. 
Of course she must be punished in purgatory, you know, fox 
her sin in killing herself : but you needn’t think of anything 
worse, and we will all pray for her. She may have made 
an act of contrition when she felt death coming. God 

knows — if I didn’t think that of ” she had broken down 

in the little disconnected sentences, and George’s name 
remained unspoken as she turned away to put her handker- 
chief to her eyes. 

Marmaduke knelt down beside her in silence. Presently 
she turned round, and her white face betrayed little emotion. 
Marmaduke had told her enough to start another train of 
thought in his aunt. 

“You are right,” she said, “to send Hilda home, she 
ought never to have stayed with Madge, but I hope — in fact 
I feel sure ” 

“ But perhaps it is a mistake. Aunt Helen ; I have under- 
stood so little to-day.” 

“No, I feel sure it is all right, Marmaduke, and I will say 


368 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


— but we won’t talk of it again after this — that I would 
rather you and Hilda had Skipton after we die than anybody 
else. Your marriage would be a comfort.” 

Marmaduke bent down and she kissed him a little stiffly ; 
he kissed the hand that held her work and rose. 

“ I think,” she said, “ Benediction at Farm Street is at 
four o’clock, and I will go to it. We must leave Mary and 
Madge to themselves.” 

Marmaduke then left her and turning into Piccadilly met 
the boys carrying the placards of an evening paper : “ Suicide 
in high life ”. He shivered and walked on quickly. He was 
glad to think that Madge would not learn it from the papers. 
She evidently knew it already. That was clear from Mary’s 
note. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 

It was getting late. Father Gabriel was tired. He wondered 
if it would be safe to leave the confessional now. He had 
heard a good many confessions, for it was the eve of the 
Annunciation ; and he had been in his “ box,” as he called 
the carved confessional, for nearly two hours. 

St. Philip’s Church was dimly lighted, and in the side 
chapel where stood Father Gabriel’s confessional it was 
difficult to see whether any kneeling figures were still hidden 
in the dark corners of the marble piers. In the depths of the 
low chapel under the organ-loft stood the three great crosses 
of a life-size Calvary, and before it hung three tiny red lights. 
Gaunt and terrible as it might appear to unaccustomed eyes, 
this Calvary with its awful realism of suffering was a favourite 
object of devotion. 

Father Gabriel leant forward over the door of his confes- 
sional and peered into the dark spaces about the Calvary. 

“ I wish,” he muttered to himself, “ that little lady would 
come to confession now if she is coming at all, or would 
finish her prayers and go away. She has been there for 
more than an hour and it is past half-past nine.” 

He sighed impatiently ; he had told his nephew, a young 
officer of whom he was very proud, that he would be able to 
see him at half-past nine. 

He smiled affectionately as he thought of the handsome 
young soldier, of whom he was always talking, until Father 
Gabriel’s nephew and his wonderful perfections had passed 

(369) 24 


370 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


into a proverb among the younger fathers of the com- 
munity. 

Need he after all stay any later in the Calvary Chapel ? 
There were several other fathers still left in different parts 
of the great church. She would have no difficulty in finding 
a confessor, if indeed she wanted one. But he dismissed the 
thought and composed himself to patience. 

It would be better to be doing something he thought ; so 
he struck a match and lit the candle in a little tin sconce by 
his side. Instantly the confessional appeared in the dark 
church to be a blaze of light. Father Gabriel’s white hair 
and bent head, his cotta and even the books on the tiny shelf 
by his side, made a vivid picture in the distance. He looked 
out cautiously. The little lady had stirred, and had for a 
moment turned a very white face in his. direction. 

Yes, she evidently did mean to come to him and he must 
wait her convenience, and let Charlie kick his heels impatiently 
in his uncle’s room. Father Gabriel sighed again, drew a pair 
of pincers and a half-made rosary and a roll of wire out of the 
pocket of his cassock, and set to work. 

Nobody could make rosaries as well as Father Gabriel. 
Each twist of the silver wire was so strongly and firmly done ; 
each link was so cleanly cut off by the tweezers ; there was 
not a weak point throughout. No wonder they lasted for a 
lifetime, and that dying hands long after he had left this 
world clasped the rosaries he had made for little children. 
Swiftly and dexterously the old fingers, though crooked and 
almost deformed from rheumatism, worked at their task. 
He wanted to finish the rosary that night. It was to 'be a 
present for a little girl who was to make her first communion 
on to-morrow’s feast, the Annunciation. Hfe smiled gently 
as he thought of the child’s earnestness and sweet anxiety 
over her preparation. “And that fool of a mother of hers 
kept talking to her about how well her white frock had been 
made. That’s the sort of woman that ought to be stifled.’’ 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 


371 


Yet though he spoke fiercely to himself and was fond of 
strong words, and used to say that he was sorry “ he 
couldn’t help swearing,” yet he was very patient with 
wrong-doers, and he was noted among the younger fathers 
for his love of any real big sinner. The old man’s experi- 
ence of the catalogue of sin was large. He had sat in 
that confessional “so sedately” year out and year in for 
more than forty years. There were crowds of people whom 
he had only known in this way coming time after time with 
much the same story, for we may suppose that it was not a 
very large number who showed marked changes of character, 
great improvements. Then there had been some, too, who 
came there weighted with great sins, horrid cruelties, moral 
and physical, murders of the body or murders of the soul. 
All this had been poured into his ears. He knew of things 
stranger than any fiction has imagined ; he knew the secret 
sins of the respectable ; he knew the secret remorse of the 
speculator haunted by his victims ; he knew the secrets of 
women of every kind and sort. 

He must have been often saddened at the half-hearted 
repentances, the self-delusions, the deceptions of those who 
came to satisfy their own consciences, to persuade themselves 
that they had repented. Had he not trembled in pronounc- 
ing the words of absolution for fear they were not ratified in 
the heavenly courts ? Were such the occupations, was such 
the knowledge which should produce a sunny old age, almost 
exuberantly bright, almost childishly gay ? Yet though he 
could not have denied the long catalogue of which we have 
spoken, the old man stoutly maintained that every year of 
his life he had grown in that confessional to think better, 
more highly, of human nature ! 

He had seen so much of goodness, he would say, so much 
of heroism, such high aspirations, — at the word “aspirations” 
perhaps he would smile a little. “ The women have the 
highest aspirations, but are the most inclined to self-deception 


372 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


and delusion. Yet I’ve known very grand women.” Then 
he would shake his head and tell the hearer to “ get along ” 
and take care of himself. 

The rosary was nearly finished, and it only needed the 
addition of a little silver crucifix which Father Gabriel had 
left upstairs. He looked at his watch, — ten o’clock, twenty 
more minutes had passed and the church would soon be 
shut. 

All the other fathers had gone now ; he had heard them 
all shut and lock their confessionals one by one ; some quite 
faintly from the farthest chapels in the great church. The 
old men left slowly and with feet dragging ; the young men 
with long strides impeded by their cassocks. They were all 
gone into the house, shutting the door that communicated 
with the church more or less loudly behind them. It would 
be best to resort to diplomacy and pretend to go, and then 
the little woman would have to make up her mind. Otherwise 
the bell would ring and she would be obliged to leave at the 
closing hour. 

He opened the low doors in front of him and rose ; he 
made a noise with his books and blew out the candle. In 
a moment she had moved quickly to his side and spoke in 
a low, hurried voice : — 

I want to go to confession,” Madge said, “ but Pm 
afraid I shan’t be ready for some time.” 

The priest smiled at her : — his old face was a very gentle 
one. 

“ Why, you have been preparing for nearly an hour ! ” 

“ But I can't get clear ! ” said Madge, “ it is so long since 
I’ve been.” 

“ How many years ? ” he inquired, still smiling. 

“ Oh, not quite a year.” 

“ Come along,” he said, laying a hand on her arm, “ come 
along; can’t you see, my dear child, that you will only muddle 
your brains by this ? ” 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 


373 


There was a slight touch of eccentricity in the old man’s 
manner: a sense of humour seemed to lurk in the overflowing 
kindness. But his fatherliness suited Madge just then and 
seemed to make matters easier. 

How natural it was to Madge to be kneeling on the narrow 
footboard, with her mouth to the little grating and a crucifix 
hanging just above her. Mechanically she was soothed by 
the priest’s blessing, and by repeating herself the first half of 
the Confiteor. Then she began : — 

“ It is about nine months since I last went to Confession 
Then a pause. 

“ Well,” said Father Gabriel. 

“ I was engaged till to-day to marry a divorcee.’’ The 
words were jerked out abruptly. 

“ How long had you been engaged ? ” 

“ A little more than a fortnight. I broke it off to-day.” 

“ Thank God. And now, my child, you loved this man 
very much ? ” 

“ No,” Madge faltered. “ Somebody else did,” she stopped. 

“ How did it come about ? Mind, you needn’t tell me 
unless it would be a help.” 

“ I had been getting worse and worse,” came in a childish, 
broken voice, “ I often didn’t go to Mass, and I played cards 
and didn’t pay my bills, and read bad books, and I felt I 
couldn’t be good, and, and I wanted to marry him because 
he is rich and great, and I knew nobody would know he had 
a wife living as ” 

“Yes, yes, I see, and now how were you saved to-day, 
eh ?” 

“ I don’t know how it happened. My sister-in-law who 
has brought me here to-night came to tell me that she is 
going to be a Sister of Charity, and it startled me. I felt 
she would go to heaven and I never should, and when I told 
her she must go away and she said ‘ Good-bye,’ I couldn’t 
let her go. It seemed — I don’t know why — as if she was 


374 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


taking away my dead baby with her. Then to-morrow is 
the day when I made my first communion in the convent 
school in France — and I remembered it was the Eve of the 
Annunciation — and Mary was going to heaven and I was 
going to hell — and ” her voice faltered. 

“ Don’t hurry,” said Father Gabriel. 

“And I had been frightened all night. I don’t know why, 
somebody seemed to be in the room with me. I am sure 
something has happened. I haven’t even been good in 
giving him up. I was frightened. I had an instinct ” 

“ Never mind those feelings, child.” Father Gabriel was 
a little alarmed at a sort of wildness in her tone. “ Thank 
God that He has saved you and brought you to His feet. 
Now try to recollect a little more about your sins. The 
world got hold of you and you just did what others were 
doing. Let us try now to sift a little. When did you stop 
going to Mass ? ” 

And so, in a few moments it was all told and Madge was 
surprised to find how clear her story had become — how by 
“seeming venial genial fault” she had passed to worse, 
more cruel sin, merciless towards others, merciless to her 
own soul. No self-excuse, no blame to anybody came out 
in her story — she had always been by nature candid, and 
she had been too well trained to be tempted to dim the 
simplicity of her confession. At last “that is all I can 
remember, father,” came in a low murmur, and Madge 
bowed her head below the crucifix. “Then for your penance 
you will say one decade of the Rosary, the Mystery of 
the Annunciation, to-morrow’s feast — and, my child, let 
us think a great deal of the love of God. He came down to 
this unhappy sinful world and He became a little child for love 
of you,” and so he spoke on for a few moments, — nothing much 
more than that, no word of death or of the judgment or eternal 
punishment. But while he spoke balm fell on Madge’s 
bruised spirit and shaken nerves, and when he concluded 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 


375 


those few words thus : “ Now, child, make an act of sorrow 
whilst I give you absolution,” the tears of penance flowed 
freely and the words of pardon came upon a deeply contrite 
heart. 

As soon as Madge had gone Father Gabriel rose, took his 
breviary off the shelf, left the confessional and locked the 
folding doors behind him. Then he passed across to the 
middle of the church and walked a little way up the central 
passage. The custodian was walking round the chapels to 
be sure that nobody was left before he locked the outer doors. 
Father Gabriel signed to him, and when he was near enough, 
whispered to him not to disturb the lady who had just been 
to confession for another five minutes. The man sighed 
sleepily but did not venture to object. 

The spacious building was dark and still. One jet of gas in 
the far distance near the door, a few lamps hanging before 
statues and pictures in the side chapels, and the distant line 
of still radiance from the sanctuary lamps hardly did more 
than reveal the great size of the church. But one brighter 
spot there was in front of the Lady Altar — a stand of 
votive candles lit by the faithful for their own private inten- 
tions. It was a favourite object with Father Gabriel ; and 
he would glance that way, thinking with pleasure that each 
golden spot of light, each taper consuming itself there, 
carried on the prayer of some faithful soul now sleeping 
after the day’s toil. As he came in front of the Lady Altar 
he glanced, as he ever did, at the marble statue enthroned 
above it, shining in the yellow light of the votive candles. 
Then he raised his biretta, and whispered a good-night 
to the Blessed Mother. As he turned from the altar to 
move towards the sanctuary for a moment’s adoration, he 
saw that there was another lady still in the church. In a 
corner formed by the red marble base of the pier knelt the 
light upright figure of a young girl whose eyes gazed straight 
across the wide space of the sanctuary to the gold door of 


376 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE 


the tabernacle. The wax tapers cast a faint mellow light 
on the young face. Those who loved Mary had seen that 
face lit with the high spirits of pure childlike enjoyment 
riding or playing with the dogs : they had seen too that 
face spiritualised and awestruck with suffering. Now its 
beauty was wonderfully intensified by the spiritual beauty 
of the King’s daughter that is from within. 

From the moment she knelt there, all that tried Mary 
had been left behind — the dreary anxious day with Madge, 
the sense of a blind moral struggle, the oppression that 
might be compared to the difficulty of finding her way in a 
thick fog. All day the vision of her soul had been interrupted 
and disturbed ; but in the evening she had found her way to 
the Blessed Sacrament, and in the evening there had been 
light and peace. 

A less sympathetic observer of men and women’s faces 
than Father Gabriel might have paused for a moment to 
look at and to understand Mary’s as he passed her. What a 
contrast between the pale face of the overstrained, repentant, 
little woman of the world, with her elaborate bonnet and 
cloak and unmistakable air of wealth, and this fresh, fair, 
strong, active, young and typically English girl, in her happy 
unconsciousness and mysterious peace of soul. “ My sister- 
in-law told me that she was going to be a Sister of Charity.” 
The words came in a flash to Father Gabriel, and he bowed 
his head reverently and muttered a Deo gratias as he went. 
This was one more of the heroisms that filled his humble 
soul with a tender and thankful surprise. He turned again 
for a moment ere he reached the door leading into the house, 
and looked back. He could still see the golden hair, the 
high narrow white forehead ; the adoration of her attitude, 
the complete sacrifice so strongly suggested by every line of 
the vigorous young figure. He saw the little lady come up 
to her, kneel by her side for a moment ; and then they went 
away together. 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 


377 


He gave a faint sigh and then checked himself. A figure 
rose before his imagination such as he had often seen. A 
young Sister of Charity clothed in a peasant’s blue gown, 
or, worse, if still a novice, in a singularly hideous kind of 
black alpaca, her hands red with household toil ; the figure 
bent as if habitually tired, the white cap on the head and 
the golden hair gone for ever. Nor was it likely, he re- 
minded himself, that this great sense of joy, this flood of 
mystic happiness would be unbroken — “ God fulfils His 
purpose in many ways, and He sends times of darkness 
even to the simplest of His children,” thought the old man 
as he shut the door into the house behind him with a little 
bang, and slowly made his way down a dark and narrow 
passage. He knew so well what lay before Mary in her 
new life — the trials from superiors, the inevitable class 
differences between herself and her companions, the long- 
ing for loved faces left at home. Yet the sigh had been 
but a superficial one, and the deep joy rose in his heart, the 
heart of a brave soldier of the cross, who has grown old and 
is deeply rooted in God’s peace, as he recognised a young 
novice soon to be promoted to a post of danger but of glory. 

Father Gabriel’s was not a mind much addicted to 
abstract thought or to philosophy ; he troubled himself 
little about the infidelity or the agnosticism of the day. 
But of one argument in the face of modern thought he 
was almost fatiguingly fond — he was always saying that 
none of ‘‘ those fellows ” could explain away the beauty of 
the soul : and to-night he muttered to himself as he lifted 
one rheumatic knee after the other up the high staircase : 
“ What would they make of a girl like that, I wonder ? — 
bother my old knees ! — she has given up everything — I 
suppose she has a father and a mother and she is young 
and beautiful. Almighty God always takes the best of 
them. Well, and she is giving up fun and joy and life and 
home. And what do they suppose is left in their place ? ” 


378 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


He was unconsciously assuming his pulpit manner as he 
spoke. 

“Just a sentiment, a feeling, an echo from no voice, a 
response to no call ! Do they think it is a sacrifice for 
mere love of sacrifice ? Dear me, I am up at last, but 
Charlie is gone, of course, I couldn’t expect anything else 
at this hour ” — for he saw before him that the room was 
dark. 

He went in and fumbled for his matches on the table. 
Then he struck a light and went on talking to himself : — 

“ A good thing I’ve only got to put the cross on the rosary 
now. It is too cold here to use one’s fingers properly — ^yes, 
yes, a sacrifice for the mere love of sacrifice, that will do for 
a sermon. Then they think there is something hard and 
cruel underneath it all, and that this sort of joy the child 
has in giving up herself to Our Lord is a sort of — let me 
see — sort of hectic flush brought out by a spiritual disease, 
a humbug disguising some dark mystery in a cruel system 
of religion.” 

He was rather pleased with that sentence ; he took up a 
note-book that lay near him and wrote it down. Then he 
turned over the pages to look for a passage he had copied 
from Montalembert, written by the great orator in a time of 
suffering, when his daughter was about to leave him and go 
into a convent. 

“Quel est done cet amant invisible, mort sur un gibet il 
y a dix huit siecles, et qui attire ainsi a lui la jeunesse, la 
beaute et Tamour ? Est-ce un homme ? Non, e’est un Dieu.” 

“ That is the only explanation of the mystery ! ” he 
muttered, “ the answer to this riddle of life offered by crowds 
of such young girls. The Creator has undertaken to fill 
the hearts of His creatures if they give up all to Him. No 
wonder they are happy ! ” 

But Father Gabriel was getting very cold ; the day’s work 
was done and he was glad to go to bed. 


THE EVE OF LADY DAY. 


379 


Early next day, before the dawn of a March morning had 
done more than penetrate the darkness of the great dome 
with a few shafts of light, or had sent more than one clear ray 
from the eastern window to gild the statue of the Madonna, 
Father Gabriel said his Mass at the high altar. He had 
given her first communion to the little girl for whom he had 
finished the rosary the night before, and for her he had 
offered the Mass. After the joy of giving her Lord to the 
little child, he had passed down a row of communicants 
and had noticed with half-conscious surprise at her being 
up so early, the little lady who had kept him waiting the 
night before, and by her side the tall girl he had seen pray- 
ing in the church. 

But what had happened to them both ? Mary’s face had 
the peace rather of a Mater Dolorosa than the joy of a 
spiritual bride, and Madge lifted a face of such haggard agony 
and anguished longing when he gave her Holy Communion, 
that the old man was troubled. After Mass he knelt in one 
of the benches of the church to make his thanksgiving, and 
during that time he prayed earnestly for the little stranger. 
Presently rising to go back to the house he turned to look for 
her again, and saw that she was leaning forward almost as 
if she were falling over the bench in front of her. The tall 
girl was not by her, but kneeling a few benches behind. 
Father Gabriel walked across the church, made a genuflexion 
by Mary’s side, and touched her on the shoulder : — 

“ Did you come with that lady ? ” he asked, indicating 
Madge. 

Mary raised a tear-stained face and answered “Yes” in a 
broken voice. 

“ Listen, child,” said Father Gabriel, “ you ought to take 
her home and send for a doctor, she is going to be ill, very 
ill.” 

“ Yes,’’ said Mary with a grateful look, “ I am sure she 
is. I wanted to have a doctor last night, but she was afraid 


38 o 


ONE POOR SCRUpIe. 


he would not let her come to communion. We have not 
been to bed at all. We heard last night that a girl my sister- 
in-law knows well has," tears broke her voice for a moment, 
“ has killed herself — because — because of something my 
sister-in-law had done ; — no, I mean, something she nearly 
did, meant to do." 

Mary could say no more. The perplexed face of the old 
priest showed now a look of understanding. Father Gabriel 
hnelt down in the bench in front and buried his face in his 
hands. 

Then he rose and went back to Mary. “ Child," he said, 
putting his hand on her shoulder, “ remember that He died 
for each one of us. Take her home now and get a doctor at 

once. Comfort her, but don’t speak of it more than But 

look, she is going to faint, be quick ! " A sudden movement 
•of the little figure as if sinking backwards in the front bench 
had alarmed him. Mary moved quickly. Madge was not 
actually fainting, but her eyes betrayed no consciousness. 
Father Gabriel followed them at a little distance as Mary 
led her down the church, till he saw that they were safe in a 
brougham which was waiting outside. Then he turned back. 

He thought of the happiness of Madge’s face when she 
left the confessional the day before. He had seen the penal 
suffering now. “ It was best so ; " — but Father Gabriel’s eyes 
had filled with tears ; — “ let sin bring its own punishment 
here.” 

A few minutes later and the work of the day had begun. 
An old Irish woman in distress, an impostor of an Italian 
beggar, a lady who was not sure if she ought to dismiss her 
under housemaid, and another lady who having been at a 
ball most of the night had called to ask whether St. John 
of the Cross or St. Theresa would suit her best for spiritual 
reading, a tailor out of work, and a man who had invented a 
new method of lighting the House of Commons and wanted 
his invention to be used by the fathers of St. Philip’s, an 


THE 'eve of lady DAY. 381 

earnest but tactless district visitor — all these soon occupied 
Father Gabriel’s mind to the exclusion of Madge and Mary^ 
He never saw those two again, and he did not so much as 
know their names. But from time to time their faces rose 
in the kaleidoscope of memory, and the old priest would 
commend their souls with so many others who had passed 
by his way, to the care of the “ Mother of Sorrows ” and the 
“ Queen of Heaven 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A POSTSCRIPT. 

Nearly a score of years have passed since that 25th of 
March. Hilda Riversdale and Madge Fitz-Wygram will next 
season be bringing out their girls — who are great friends. 

For Hilda is still Hilda Riversdale. Marmaduke took his 
uncle’s name when he came into the Skipton property at 
old Mrs. Riversdale’s death. Lady Fitz-Wygram and her 
only girl are frequent visitors at Skipton, of which, under 
the new regime^ Madge has become very fond. Some people 
think there is a kindness already growing up between the 
tall, blue-eyed Arthur Riversdale, who is just going up to 
Oxford, and Mary Fitz-Wygram — and they are not cousins, 
so that no one much minds it, while Madge certainly likes it. 

It is only fifteen years since Mary Riversdale went to be 
a nun, and five years since her death. After she had nursed 
Madge through the severe illness which came a few days 
after the news of Cecilia’s suicide, and spent some weeks of 
her convalescence at Eastbourne, they went together to 
Skipton only to find old Mr. Riversdale seriously ill. He 
was attacked by a paralytic seizure on the very day of their 
arrival, and although he rallied to some extent it was 
clearly the beginning of the end. Mary stayed with her 
father during the few years of life which remained, and he 
died a very peaceful and holy death, without being called 
upon to make the sacrifice the thought of which had helped 
to break him. The father and daughter used often to talk 
of George’s widow, whose life now seemed so blank and 
aimless, and for whose future they could not but be anxious. 

(382) 


A POSSTCRIPT. 


383 


Her nature seemed to have lost its buoyancy, and from time to 
time there was an expression in her eyes which once made Mr. 
Riversdale exclaim “ She looks as if she had seen a ghost 

“ Whom has she to care for — what has she to look to — is 
what one feels,” the old man would often say. 

And even when old Lord Fitz-Wygram fell in love with 
her at a country house party, and gave her an unexception- 
able Catholic home, they could not be quite free from anxiety. 
Some of her former restless love of excitement was still there, 
and the position of an old man’s wife did not seem to them 
to solve the problem of her future satisfactorily. Mary’s 
most stable consolation was the negative one — that the inti- 
macy with Laura Hurstmonceaux had never been renewed. 

But when, two years after her marriage, Madge brought 
her baby girl of six months old on a visit to Skipton, Mary 
and her father soon became very happy indeed. Peace and 
new life seemed at last to have come for Madge in devotion 
to the child she idolised. 

“ I am much happier about Madge,” was all that the 
Squire said to Mary two days after his daughter-in-law had 
arrived, and Mary answered : “ Oh yes ! ” in a tone and 
with a look which more than satisfied her father. 

Mr. Riversdale did not live long after this. In his^will he 
left the property to Hilda after his wife’s death. 

Marmaduke had been already returned as member for the 
county before he succeeded to Skipton, and Mark Fieldes — 
owing to an accidental meeting while he was canvassing his 
constituents — had helped him a good deal in the election. 

They became decidedly better friends, and Mark still pays 
an annual visit to Skipton. He goes less frequently to 
visit the Benedictines and Carthusians than he used to — 
though he stayed so long at Father Clement’s monastery 
in Warwickshire, soon after Cecilia’s death, that his friends 
said he had become a monk. He reappeared however with 
the MS. of Phidias Redux completed. 

If he goes less to monasteries, he also cares less for his 


384 


ONE POOR SCRUPLE. 


country house visits and his London season. But he goes 
through with both in a rather perfunctory manner. Some 
people say that his heart is more than ever in his work ; but 
Lord Tim declares that he is growing lazy and fond of his 
dinner. His visit to Skipton is, I think, the greatest pleasure 
of the year. He contemplates the happiness of Hilda and 
Marmaduke with a sympathy unclouded by any jealous 
memories, and is a great favourite with their children. He 
still studies the signs of the times, and owns that he was 
wrong in his prophecy of a general decay of faith on the 
lines suggested to him by the story of Cecilia Rupert. He 
is not sure that he understands the intellectual outlook of 
the dawning century ; but he is determined that he will 
understand it before he leaves the problem alone. 

Mary Riversdale’s death, after ten years of devoted work 
among the poor in the East End — for she was not, after all, 
sent to China — was a great shock to him, the degree of 
which was indeed almost inexplicable ; and Hilda told 
Marmaduke that she thought they should soon hear that Mr. 
Fieldes wished to be received into the Church. But no such 
event has yet happened. 

Old Mrs. Riversdale survived her husband five years, and 
was then laid to rest in the vault by his side. And now 
the schoolroom at Skipton is occupied by a generation of 
Riversdales who have a good deal in common with their 
predecessors, though there is a difference. Arthur, the 
eldest boy, is held by the old villagers and tenants to be the 
image of Mr. Arthur, his grandfather. “To see the young 
squire on his horse, you would think it was Mr. Arthur 
himself come back again.” 

But Hilda thinks him more like her mother’s father. 
And in tastes he represents both impartially — for he is an 
excellent sportsman who nevertheless loves his books, and 
is keenly looking forward to his first year at Balliol. 

And now we bid them farewell and commit their fate to 
the coming century. 



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Br STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

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A ' 

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THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF. 

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author of “ a gentleman of FRANCE,” ETC. 


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commands interest and admiration. 

Of the half dozen stories of St. Bartholomew’s Eve which we have read this ranks first 
in vividness, delicacy of perception, reserve power, and high principle.” 

— Christian Union, N. Y. 

“ A romance which, although short, deserves a place in literature along side of Charles 
Reade’s ' Cloister and the Hearth.’ . . . We have given Mr. Weyman’s book not only 

a thorough reading with great interest, but also a more than usual amount of space because 
we consider it one of the best examples in recent fiction of how thrilling and even bloody 
adventures and scenes may be described in a style that is graphic and true to detail, and yet 
delicate, quaint, and free from all coarseness and brutality.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, N. Y. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YOEK. 


A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE. 

Being: the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne, 

Sieur de Marsac. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF,” ETC. 


With Frontispiece and Vigrnette by H. J. Ford. 

1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 

•‘One of the best novels since ‘Lorna Doone.’ It will be read and then reread for th* 
40ere pleasure its reading gives. The subtle charm of it is not in merely transporting the 
nineteenth-century reader to the sixteenth, that he may see life as it was then, but in trans- 
forming him into a sixteenth-century man, thinking its thoughts, and living its life in perfect 
touch and sympathy ... it carries the reader out of his present life, giving him a new 
and totally different existence that rests and refreshes him.” — N. Y. World. 

“ No novelist outside of France has displayed a more definite comprehension of the very 
essence of mediaeval French life, and no one, certainly, has been able to set forth a depiction 
of it in colors so vivid and so entirely in consonance with the truth. . . . The characters 

in the tale are admirably drawn, and the narrative is nothing less than fascinating in its fine 
flavor of adventure.” — Beacon, Boston. 

“ We hardly know whether to call this latest work of Stanley J. Weyman a historical 
lomance or a story of adventure. It has all the interesting, fascinating and thrilling char^ 
teristics of both. The scene is in France, and the time is that fateful eventful one which 
culminated in Henry of Navarre becoming king. Naturally it is a story of plots and intrigue, 
of danger and of the grand passion, abounding in intense dramatic scenes and most interest- 
ing situations. It is a romance which will rank among the masterpieces of historic fiction.” 

— Advertiser, Boston. 

•* A romance after the style of Dumas the elder, and well worthy of being read by those 
who can enjoy stirring adventures told m true romantic fashion. . . . The great person- 

ages of the time — Henry III. of Valois, Henry IV., Rosny, ‘ Rambouillet, Turenne — are 
brought in skillfully, and the tragic and varied history of the time forms a splendid frame in 
which to set the picture of Marsac’s love and courage . . . the troublous days are well 

described and the interest is genuine and lasting, for up to the very end the author manages 
effects which impel the reader to go on with renewed curiosity.” — The Nation. 

“A genuine and admirable piece of work. . . . The reader will not turn many pages 
before he finds himself in the grasp of a writer who holds his attention to the very Last mo- 
ment of the story. The spirit of adventure pervades the whole from beginning to end. ... 

It may be said that the narration is a delightful love story. The interest of the reader 
Is constantly excited by the development of unexpected turns in the relation of the principal 
lovers. The romance lies against a background of history truly painted. . . . The 

descriptions of the court life of the period and of the factional strifes, divisions, hatreds of the 
age, are fine. . . . This story of those times is worthy of a very high place among histori- 
cal novels of recent years.” — Public Opinion. 

“ Bold, strong, dashing, it is one of the best we have read for many years. We sat down 
for a cursory perusal, and ended by reading it delightedly through. . . . Mr. Weyman 

has much of the vigor and rush of incident of Dr. Conan Doyle, and this book ranks worthily 
beside ‘ The White Company.' . . . We very cordially recommend this book to the jaded 

novel reader who cares for manly actions more than for morbid introspection.” 

, — The Churchman. 

•‘The book is not only good literature, it is a ‘rattling good story,’ instinct with the 
spirit of true adventure and stirring emotion. Of love and peril, intrigue and fighting, there 
is plenty, and many scenes could not have been bettered. In all his adventures, and they 
are many, Marsac acts as befits his epoch and his own modest yet gallant personality. Well- 
known historical figures emerge in telling fashion under Mr. Weyman’s discriminating and 
fascinating touch.” — A thenaeum. 

“ I cannot fancy any reader, old or young, not sharing with doughty Crillon his admiration 
for M. de Marsac, who, though no swashbuckler, has a sword that leaps from its scabbard at the 
breath of insult. . . . There are several historical personages in the novel ; there is, of 

course, a heroine, of great beauty and enterprise; but that true ‘Gentleman of France,' 
M. de Marsac, with his perseverance and valor, dominates them all.” 

— Mr. James Payn in the Illustrated London News. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN. & 00.. 91-93 FIETH AVE., NE¥ lOEZ. 


UNDER THE RED ROBE. 

A ROMANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “a GKNTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “ THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF,” ETQ 

With 1 2 Full-page Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 
1 2mo, Lineh Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“Mr, Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine things and describes them 
splendidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on every page of his new 
story. Its interest never flags, for his resource is rich, and it is, moreover, the kind of 
a story that one cannot plainly see the end of from Chapter I. . . . the story reveals 
a knowledge of French character and French landscape that was surely never ac- 
quired at second hand. The beginning is wonderfully interesting.”— New York Times. 

” As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as ‘ Ivanhoe ’ or ‘ Henry Esmond ’ 
was of theirs. Each later story has shown a marked advance in strength and treat- 
ment, and in the last Mr. Weyman . . . demonstrates that he has no superior 
among living novelists. . . . There are but two characters in the story — his art 
makes all other but unnoticed shadows cast by them — and the attention is so keenly 
fixed upon one or both, from the first word to the last, that we live in their thoughts 
and see the drama unfolded through their eyes.” — N. Y. World. 

“ It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus to challenge com- 
parison with Dumas’s immortal musketeers ; but the result justifies the boldness. . . . 
The plot is admirably clear and strong, the diction singularly concise and telling, and 
the stirring events are so managed as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few 
better novels of adventure than this have ever been written.” — Outlook, New York. 

” A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has a positive 
talent for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells, and the characters stano 
out with life-like distinctness. Some of the most fascinating epochs in French history 
have been splendidly illuminated by his novels, which are to be reckoned among the 
notable successes of later nineteenth-century fiction. This story of ‘ Under the Red 
Robe ’ is in its way one of the very best things he has done. It is illustrated with 
vigor and appropriateness from twelve full-page designs by R. Caton Woodville.” 

— Boston Beacon. 

” It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple and transparent 
English, and quivering with tense human feeling from the first word to the last. It is 
not a book that can be laid down at the middle of it. The reader once caught in Us 
whirl can no more escape from it than a ship from the maelstrom.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 

“The ‘red robe’ refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story is laid. 
The descriptions of his court, his judicial machinations and ministrations, his partial 
defeat, stand out from the book as vivid as flame against a background of snow. For 
the rest, the book is clever and interesting, and overflowing with heroic incident. 
Stanley Weyman is an author who has apparently come to stay.” — Chicago Post. 

” In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his ‘ Gentleman of France,’ 
although his new heroes are of different mould. The book is full of adventure and 
characterized by a deeper study of character than its predecessor.” 

— Washington Post. 

‘‘Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success. . . . The author artfully 

K ursues the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have in Berault, the 
ero, a more impressive Marsac ; an accomplished duelist, telling the tale of his own 
adventures, he first repels and finally attracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu, 
and a man of honor. Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set down 
by a master-hand.”— Philadelphia Press. 


LONGMANS, GKEEN, & 00., 91-93 PIPTH AVE., NEW YOEK, 


THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. 


By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF "a GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “THE HOUSE OF 
THE WOLF,” “my LADY ROTH A,” ETC. 


With Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


“ A delightfully told and exciting tale of the troublesome times of Bloody Mary in Eng- 
land, and the hero — every inch a hero — was an important actor in them.” 

— New Orleans Picayune. 

“ It is a highly exciting tale from beginning to end, and very well told.” 

— New York Herald. 

“One of the best historical novels that we have read for some time. , . . It is a 

story of the time of Queen Mary, and is possessed of great dramatic power. ... In char- 
acter-drawing the story is unexcelled, and the reader will follow the remarkable adventures 
of the three fugitives with the most intense interest, which end with the happy change on 
the accession of Elizabeth to the throne.” — Home Journal, Boston. 

“ The book presents a good historical pen-picture of the most stirring period of English 
civilization, and graphically describes scenes and incidents which undoubtedly happened. 
The style is plain, and the book well worthy of careful perusal. 

“ Humor and pathos are in the pages, and many highly dramatic scenes are described 
with the ability of a master hand.” — Item, Philadelphia. 

“ Is worthy of careful reading ; it is a unique, powerful, and very interesting stoiy, the 
scene of which is laid alternately in England, the Netherlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate; 
th^ times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner plays a leading part in this romance, 
which presents in good shape the manners and customs of the period.” 

— BUFF.A.LO Commercial. 

“ A romance of the olden days, full of fire and life, with touches here and there of love 
and politics. . . . We have in this book a genuine romance of Old England, in which 

soldiers, chancellors, dukes, priests, and high-bom dames figure. The time is the period of 
the war with Spain. Knightly deeds abound. The story will more than interest the reader ; 
it will charm him, and he will scan the notices of forthcoming books for another novel by 
Weyman.” — Public Opinion, New York. 

“ Its humor, its faithful observance of the old English style of writing, and its careful 
adherence to historic events and localities, will recommend it to all who are fond of historic 
novels. The scenes are laid in England and in the Netherlands in the last four years of 
Queen Mary’s life.”— Literary World, Boston. 

“ Is distinguished by an uncommon display of the inventive faculty, a Dumas-like ingenu- 
ity in contriving dangerous situations, and an enviable facility for extricating the persecuted 
hero from the very jaws of destruction. The scene is laid alternately in England, the Neth- 
erlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ; the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner 
plays a leading part in this romance, which presents in good shape the manners and customs 
of the period. It is useless dividing the story into arbitrary chapters, for they will not serve 
to prevent the reader from ‘devouring’ the ‘ Story of Francis Cludde,’ from the stormy 
beginning to its peaceful end in the manor-house at Coton End.” 

— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ This is certainly a commendable story, being full of interest and told with great 
spirit. . . . It is a capital book for the young, and even the less hardened nerves of the 

middle-aged will find here no superfluity of gore or brutality to mar their pleasure in a 
bright and clean tale of prowess and adventure.” — Nation, New York. 

“A well-told tale, with few, if any, anachronisms, and a credit to the clever talent of 
Stanley J. Weyman.” — Springfield Republican. 

“ It is undeniably the best volume which Mr. Weyman has given us, both in literary 
style and unceasing interest.” — Yale Literary Magazine. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 PIPTH AYR, NEW YORK. 


MY LADY ROTHA. 

A ROMANCE OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ WAR. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

ATJTHOR OF “a gentleman OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” 

“the house of the wolf.” 


With Eight Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


^ ** Few writers of fiction who have appeared in England in the last decade have given 
their readers more satisfaction than Mr. Stanley J. Weyman, and no single writer of this 
number. can be said to have approached him, much less to have equaled him in the romantic 
world of the historical novel ... he has the art of story-telling in the highest degree, 
the art which instinctively divines the secret, the soul of the story which he tells, and the 
rarer art, if it be not the artlessness, which makes it as real and as inevitable as life itself. 
His characters are alive, human, unforgetable, resembling in this respect those of Thackeray 
in historical lines and in a measure those of Dumas, with whom, and not inaptly, Mr. Wey- 
man has been compared. His literature is good, so good that we accept it as a matter of 
course, as we do that of Thackeray and Scott. . . . Mr. Weyman’s historical novels 

will live.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ . . . differs signally from Mr. Weyman’s earlier published works. It is treated 

with the minuteness and lovingness of a first story which has grown up in the mind of the 
author for years. . . . Marie Wort is one of the bravest souls that ever moved quietly 

along the pages of a novel. She is so unlike the other feminine characters whom Weyman 
has drawn that the difference is striking and adds significance to this one book. . . . 

‘ My Lady Rotha ’ is full of fascinating interest, all the more remarkable in a work adhering 
so strictly to historical truth.” — Evening Post, Chicago. 

“This last book of his is brimful of action, rushing forward with a roar, leaving the 
reader breathless at the close ; for if once begun there is no stopping place. The concep- 
tion is unique and striking, and the culmination unexpected. The author is so saturated 
with the spirit of the times of which he writes, that he merges his personality m that of the 
supposititious narrator, and the virtues and failings of his men and women are set forth in a 
fashion which is captivating from its very simplicity. It is one of his best novels.” 

— Public Opinion. 

“Readers of Mr. Weyman’s novels will have no hesitation in pronouncing his just pub- 
lished ‘ My Lady Rotha ’ in every way his greatest and most artistic production. We 
know 6i nothing more fit, both in conception and execution, to be classed with the immortal 
Waverleys than this his latest work. ... A story true to life and true to the times 
which Mr. Weyman has made such a careful study.” —The Advertiser, Boston. 

“ No one of Mr. Weyman’s books is better than ‘ My Lady Rotha ’ unless it be ‘ Under 
the Red Robe,’ and those who have learned to like his stories of the old days when might 
made right will appreciate it thoroughly. It is a good book to read and read again.” 

— New York World. 

“ ... As good a tale of adventure as any one need ask ; the picture of those war- 
like times is an excellent one, full of life and color, the blare of trumpets and the flash o' 
steel — and toward the close the description of the besieged city of Nuremberg and of the 
battle under Wallenstein’s entrenchments is masterly.” — Boston Traveller. 

“The loveliest and most admirable character in the story is that of a young Cathol'.c girl, 
while in painting the cruelties and savage barbarities of war at that period the brush is held 
by an impartial hand. Books of adventure and romance are apt to be cheap and '.ensational.' 
Mr. Weyman’s stories are worth tons of such stuff. They are thrilling, exciting, absorbing, 
interesting, and yet clear, strong, and healthy in tone, written by a gentlemavi and a man of 
sense and taste.” — Sacred Heart Review, Boston. 

“Mr. Weyman has outdone himself in this remarkable book. . . . The whole story 

is told with consummate skill. The plot is artistically devised and enro'.led before the read- 
er’s eyes. The language is simple and apt, and the descriptions are graphic and terse. The 
charm of the story takes hold of the reader on the very first page, and oolds him spell-bound 
to the very end.” — New Orleans Picayune. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 PIPTH AYENUE, NEW YOKE. 


THE RED COCKADE. 

A NOVEL OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

HUTHOR OF *‘A GENTI.EMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” THE HOUSE OF 
THE WOLF,” “ MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown 8vO| 
Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“ Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter part of this century. . 
. . The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, the rising of those who have re- 

venges to feed, the burnings and the outrages are described in a masterly way. The attack 
on the castle of St. Alais, the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great building, 
and the escape of the young lovers — these incidents are told in that breathless way which 
Weyman has made familiar in other stories. It is only when one has finished the book and 
has gone back to reread certain passages that the dramatic power and the sustained passion 
of these scenes are clearly felt.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ ‘The Red Cockade,’ a story of the French Revolution, shows, in the first place, care- 
ful study and deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr. Weyman . . . has caught the spirit 

of the times. . . . The book is brimful of romantic incidents. It absorbs one’s interest 

from the first page to the last ; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the good 
and brave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance.” — Syracuse Post. 

“We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of the spirit of the high 
bom and the low born which centuries of aristocratic tyranny and democratic suffering en- 
gendered in France. It is history which we read here, and not romance, but history which 
IS so perfectly written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in which it 
is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare’s plays blends with the poetry which vital 
izes and glorifies it.” — Mail and Express, New York. 

“ It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank among Weyman’s 
best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France its action is laid, and with marvellous 
skill the author has delineated the most striking types of men and women who made the Rev- 
olution so terrible.” — New York World. 

“ * The Red Cockade ’ is a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of the eighteenth cen- 
tury and full of stirring romance. The tragic period of the French Revolution forms a frame 
in which to set the adventures of Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part l^e plays 
in those days of peril has a full measure of dramatic interest. . . . Mr. Weyman has 

evidently studied the histo^ of the revolution with a profound realization of its intense 
tragedy. ’’--Detroit Free Press. 

“ The action of the story is rapid and powerful. The Vicomte’s stmggle with his own 
prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends, the perils he encounters, and the 
great bravery he shows in his devotion to Denise are strikingly set forth, while the historical 
background is made vivid and convincing— the frenzy caused by the fall of the Bastile, the 
attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, all being described with dra- 
matic skill and verisimilitude. It is a fascinating and absorbing tale, which carnes the reader 
with it, and impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and power 
can do.” — Boston Beacon. 

“ The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, and marked with a 
fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse on Mr. Weyman s P^rt. Regard- 
ing his varied and well-chosen characters one cares only to say that they are full of interest 
and admirably portrayed. . . . It is one of the most spirited stories of the hour, and one 

of the most delightfully freighted with suggestion.” — Chicago Interior. 

“With so striking a character for his hero, it is not wonderful that Mr. Weyman has 
evolved a story that for ingenuity of plot and felicity of treatment is equal to some of his 
best efforts. . . . ‘ The Red Cockade ’ is one of the unmistakably strong historical ro- 

mances of the season. ’’^ — Boston Herald. 

“ We are greatly mistaken if the ‘ Red Cockade ’ does not take rank with the very 
best book that Mr. Weyman has written.” — Scotsman. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YOEK. 


SHREWSBURY. 

A ROMANCE OF THE TIME OF WILLIAM AND MARY. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF ** A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “ UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “ THE HOUSE OF THE 

WOLF,” “ MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 24 Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson. Crown Svo, 
Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“ Mr. Stanley Weyman has written a rattling good romantic story that is in every way 
•worthy of the author of the ever-delightful ‘ Gentleman of France.’ ” — New York Sun. 

“ Considered as fictive literature, the novel is an achievement worthy of high . . . 

praise. The characters are projected with admirable distinctness; the whole story and its 
incidents are well imagined and described ; the reader, while he cannot repress his contempt 
for the supposed narrator, is always interested in the story, and there is an abundance of 
dramatic action. Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of the narrative style of the period 
without endeavoring, evidently, to adhere to the vocabulary and diction, or peculiarities of 
syntax. . . . Again we see that Mr. Weyman has no superior among living writers of 

romance.” — Philadelphia Press. 

” Turning aside from mediaeval French scenes, Stanley J. Weyman takes up In ‘Shrews- 
bury ’ an English theme, and he weaves from the warp and woof of history and fancy a vivid, 
unique, close- textured and enthralling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has produced in 

‘ Shrewsbury' a novel that all admirers of his former books will be eager to read, and that 
v/ill win for him new suffrages. The illustrations are drawn with skill and appreciation.” 

— Beacon, Boston. 

“ ‘Shrewsbury’ is a magnificent confirmation of Mr. Weyman’s high estate In the world 
of fiction. 

Again he has proved in this, his latest novel, that the romantic treatment is capable, 
under a masterly hand, of uniting the thrill of imagination with the dignity of real life. His 
characters are alive, human, unforgetable. His scenes are unhackneyed, dramatic, power- 
ful. The action Is sustained and consistent, sweeping one’s interest along irresistibly to a 
(iinouement a.t once logical and climactic. And through it aU there glows that literary charm 
which makes his stories live even as those of Scott and Dumas live. ... 

The whole novel is a work of genuine literary art, fully confirming the prediction that 
when the author of ‘A Gentleman of France’ once began to deal with the historical materials 
of his own country he would clinch his title to be ranked among the greatest of romantic 
writers.” — Chicago Tribune. 

‘‘ Aside from the story, which is remarkably well told, this book Is of value for its fine 
pen pictures of William of Orange and his leading courtiers — a story of absorbing interest, 
but it differs materially from any of his other works. The best thing in the book is the 
sketch of Ferguson, the spy, and of the remarkable hold which he obtained over prominent 
men by means of his cunning and his malignancy. He dominates every scene in which he 
appears. Some of these scenes have rarely been excelled In historical fiction for intensity of 
interest. Those who have not read it, and who are fond of the romance of adventure, will 
find it fulfils Mr. Balfour’s recent definition of the ideal novel— something which makes us 
forget for the time all worry and care, and transports us to another and more picturesque age.” 

— San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ A niost readable and entertaining story. . . . Ferguson and Smith, the plotters, 
the mothers of the duke and Mary the ccurageous, who became the wife of Price, all seem 
very real, and with the other characters and the adventures which they go through make up 
an interest-holding book which can be honestly recommended to every reader of fiction.” 

— Boston Times. 

“ A romance ^written in the author’s best vein. The character drawing is particularlv 
admirable, and Richard Price, Ferguson, King William and Brown stand out In strong relief 
and with the most expressive vitality. The story is also interesting and contains many 
strong scenes, and one follows the adventures of the various characters with unabated in- 
terest from first page to last.” — Evening Gazette, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW TOEK. 


THE CASTLE INN. 

A ROMANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “a GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” 
“SHREWSBURY,” ETC., ETC. 


With six full-page Illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


“ A tale which is full of old-world romance and adventure. It has a strong flavor 
of the under life in England when George the Third w'as young, when sign-posts 
served also as gibbets, when travel was by coach and highwaymen were many, when 
men drank deep and played high. There are plenty of stirring scenes along the way, 
plenty of treachery and fighting at cross-purposes which lead to intricate and dramatic 
situations. The heroine’s charms recall Mile, de Cocheforet in ‘ Under the Red Robe,’ 
and she proves herself a maid of spirit through all the mishaps which befall her. One 
of the most notable things about ‘ The Castle Inn ’ is the w'ay in which Mr. Wej^man 
has caught the spirit of the age, and manages to imbue his readers with its feeling.” 

— Detroit Free Press. 

“ .... In ‘ The Castle Inn,’ this master of romance tells a story of the time 
of George III, in the third person. ... A story of rapid action, with a swinging 
succession of moving incidents that keep the reader incessantly on qui vive. It 
deals with human emotions with directness and thoughtfulness.” 

— The Press, Phila., Pa. 

“ . . . ‘ The Castle Inn ’ . . . is so fresh and entertaining that it takes one 

back to ‘A Gentleman of France,’ and other good things this author did several years 
ago. Mr. Weyman, in looking about for an appropriate setting for his romance, very 
wisely eschews scenes and people of to-day, and chooses, instead, England a hundred 
and thirty years ago, when George III. was on her throne, and living was a far more 
picturesque business than it is now. Beautiful maidens could be kidnapped then; 
oaring lovers faced pistols and swords in behalf of their sweethearts, and altogether 
the pace was a lively one. Mr. Weyman knows how to use the attractive colorings to 
the best advantage possible.”— Chicago Evening Post. 

“ . . . a piece of work which is infinitely better than anything else which he 
has accomplished. He has treated the eighteenth century, the time of the elder Pitt, 
with a grasp and a sympathy that presage a greater reputation for this novelist than 
he has enjoyed hitherto. The story itself is worth the telling, but the great thing is 
the way it is told.” — New York Sun. 

“ ... he has a firm grasp of his period in this book, and revives the atmos- 
phere of the last century in England, with its shallow graces and profound brutality, 
coherently and even with eloquence . . . it is a most interesting storj^ which 

should please the reader of romantic tastes and sustain the author’s reputation.” 

— New York Tribune. 

“The characters in the hook are all entertaining, and many of them are droll, 
while a few, like the conscientious Mr. Fishwick, the attorney, and the cringing 
parasite, Mr. Thomasson, are, in their own way, masterpieces of character study. 
Take it all in all, ‘ The Castle Inn ’ is in many ways the best work which has yet come 
from Mr. Weyman’s pen.” — Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in ‘ The Castle Inn.’ From cover to cover 
the book teems with adventure and romance, and the love episode is delicious. Julia 
will live as one of the most graceful heroines in the literature of our time. . . . 

We get an excellent idea of the doings of fashionable society in the time when George 
III. was young, and altogether the volume can be heartily recommended as the best 
thing that Weyman has done, and, in the opinion of one, at least, the most fascinating 
book of the season. ”t-Home Journal, New York. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & CO., 91-93 EEFTH AVE., NEW YOEE. 


THE JEWEL OF YNYS GALON 

BEING A HITHERTO UNPRINTED CHAPTER IN 
THE HISTORY OF THE SEA ROVERS. 

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL. 


With 1 2 Illustrations by Lancelot Speed. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


The tale is exceptionally well told , the descriptive passages are strong and viv^ 
Id without being over-elaborated ; and the recital of fights and adventures on sea and 
land is thrilling, without leading to any excess of horrors. The characters in the book 
are not all villians, but the progress of the narrative is lighted up by the ideals and 
strivings of brave and honorable men. The book is certainly a most attractive addi- 
tion to fiction of adventure, for it shows a fine degree of imagination on the part of the 
author. A glance at the illustrations by Lancelot Speed will alone be enough to incite 
a reading of the story from beginning to end.” — The Beacon, Boston. 

“ It is a work of genius— of the romantic-realistic school. The story is one of 
pirates and buried treasure in an island off the coast of Wales, and so well is it done 
that it fascinates the reader, putting him under an hypnotic spell, lasting long after the 
, book has been laid aside. It is dedicated to ‘every one whose blood rouses at a tale 
of tall fights and reckless adventure,’ to men and boys alike, yet there will be keener 
appreciation by the boys of larger growth, whose dreams ‘ of buried treasure and of 
one day discovering some hoard whereby to become rich beyond imagination ’ have 
become dim and blurred in the ‘ toil and struggle for subsistence.’ ‘ The Jewel of Ynys 
Galon’ is one of the great books of 1895 and will live long.” — The World, New York. 

” It is a splendid story of the sea, of battle and hidden treasure. This picture of 
the times of the sea rovers is most skillfully drawn in transparent and simple English, 
and it holds from cover to cover the absorbed interest of the reader.” 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

“ It is a story after the heart of both man and boy. There are no dull moments in 
it, and we find ourselves impatient to get on, so anxious are we to see what the next 
turn in the events is to bring forth ; and when we come to the end we exclaim in 
sorrow, “ Is that all ? ” and begin to turn back the leaves and re-read some of the most 
exciting incidents. 

Owen Rhoscomyl has just the talents for writing books of this kind, and they are 
worth a dozen of some of the books of to-day where life flows sluggishly on in a draw- 
ing-room. When the author writes another we want to know of it.” — Times, Boston. 

” The style of this thrilling story is intensely vivid and dramatic, but there is 
nothing in it of the cheap sensational order. It is worthy a place among the classics 
Tor boys.” — Advertiser, Boston. 

“ The present school of romantic adventure has produced no more strikingly im- 
aginative story than this weird tale of Welsh pirates in the eighteenth century. . . . 
A most enthralling tale, . . . told with great artistic finish and with intense spirit. 

It may be recommended without reserve to every love'; of this class of fiction.” 

— Times, Philadelphia. 

“ It is one of the best things of its kind that have appeared in a long time. . . . 
We do not know how far this tale may be taken to be historical, and, to be frank, 
we don’t care. If these things did not happen, they might have happened, and ought 
to have happened, and that is enough for us. If you like ‘Treasure Island’ and 
‘Kidnapped’ and the ‘White Company’ and ‘Francis Cludde’ and ‘ Lorna Doone,’ 
get ‘ The Jewel of Ynys Galon ’ and read it. You will not be disappointed.” 

— Gazette, Colorado Springs, Col. 

“ Our own interest in the book led us to read it at a sitting that went far into the 
night. The old Berserker spirit is considerably abroad in these pages, and the blood 
coursed the faster as stirring incident followed desperate situation and daring enter- 
prise.” — Literary World, London. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIETH AYE., NEW YORK. 


BATTLEMENT AND TOWER. 

A ROMANCE. 

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL, 

AUTHOR OF “the JEWEL OF YNYS GALON.” 


With Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodvilie. 12mo, Cloth, 

Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ It is a rare tale of the wars of the Commonwealth. The hero, Howel, is a young 
Welsh lord whose father gives him his hereditary sword and shield, and sends him to 
battle for the king. His adventures in love and war are intensely fascinating, and the 
reader puts down the book with extreme reluctance. The author has carefully studied 
the history of the times, and, besides being a thrilling tale, his story is a charming 
picture of the manners and customs of the day. It is a book well worth reading.” 

— New Orleans Picayune. 

“ . . . a powerful romance by Owen Rhoscomyl of the swashbuckling days in 

North Wales, when the Roundheads warred against the Cavaliers, and Charles I. of 
England lost his head, both metaphorically and literally. . . . The picturesque 

and virile style of the author, and the remarkable power he displays in his character 
drawing, place his book among the notable pieces of fiction of the year. There is 
plenty of fighting, hard riding, love-making, and blood-letting in the stor>-, but the 
literary touch given to his work by the author places his product far above the average 
of the many tales of like character that are now striving to satisfy the present demand 
for fiction that has power without prurience.” — World, New York. 

“ There is a vein of very pretty romance which runs through the more stirring 
scenes of battle and of siege. The novel is certainly to be widely read by those who 
love the tale of a well-fought battle and of gallant youth in the days when men carved 
their way to fame and fortune with a sword.” — Advertiser, Boston. 

“ a rattling story of adventure, privation, and peril in the wild Welsh 

marches during the English civil war. ... In this stirring narrative Mr. Rhos- 
comyl has packed away a great deal of entertainment for people who like exciting 
fiction.”— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ There is a flavor of old world chivalrj’ in his tempestuous wooing of winsome, 
imperious Barbara, a charming love idyl. . . . The hot blood of the Welshman 

leads him into many and diverse dangers, yet so gallant is he, so quick of wit, and 
with hand ever on sword hilt, that one accompanies him with unflagging attention. . . . 
The scenes of the sto^’ are historic, and the author’s fertile and ingenious imagination 
has constructed a thrilling tale in which the dramatic situations crowd thick and fast 
upon each other.” — Free Press, Detroit. 

“ Owen Rhoscomyl, who wrote an excellent tale when he penned ‘ The Jewel of 
Ynys Galon,’ has followed it with another, different in kind but its equal in 
degree. . . . Deals with an entirely different phase of Welsh legend from his 
former story, for it enters the domain of history. ... It is full of merit, and is 
entitled to pass muster as one of the successful novels of the season. . . . The plot 
is involved, and there is a mystery in it which is not wrought out until the concluding 
chapters. . . . The story will appeal strongly to the lover of romance and ad- 
venture.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

“ He calls his book a ‘ mosaic,’ and if such it be its stones are the quaint customs, 
strange ways, and weird legends of the Welsh, welded by strong and clear diction and 
colored with the pigments of a brilliant fancy. Gay pleasures, stern war, and true love 
are powerfully portrayed, rivalling each other in the interest of the reader. And 
though the heroes and their castles have I'^ng been buried beneath the dust of time, 
this writer sends an electric current through his pages making everj' actor and his sur- 
roundings alive again. He brings each successive phase of adventure, love, or battle, 
before the imagination, clad in language that impresses itself upon the memory and 
makes the book fascinating.” — Republican, Denver. 

“ His story is a stirring one, full of events, alive with action, and gilded with sen- 
timent of romance.” — Courier, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 PIPTH AYE., NEW YORK, 


FOR THE WHITE ROSE OF ARNO 

A Story of the Jacobite Rising of 1 745 
By OWEN RHOSCOMYL 

AUTHOR OF “the JEWEL OF YNYS GALON,” “ BATTLEMENT AND TOWER.” 

ETC. 


Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25 


“ His ‘Jewel of Ynys Galon,’ was a splendid story of piracy on the Welsh coast. 
His ‘ Battlement and Tower ’ was a good story of Prince Rupert’s day. . . . A third 
romance, ‘ For the White Rose of Arno,’ a story of the Jacobite rising of 1745, is pic- 
turesque and exciting. It can be recommended to every lover of a fine romantic melo- 
drama.”— Express, Buffalo, N.Y. 

‘‘ There are plenty of stirring events in the story, love, treachery, and revenge 
fighting at cross-purposes. One of the most graphic descriptions is that of the wed- 
ding of the hero and heroine. Mr. Rhoscomyl has a picturesque imagination, and he 
paints vividly with bold, true strokes. . . . The author has studied the period of 
which he writes with great care. He has not allowed his imagination to run away 
with historical facts, and the book will appeal not only to lovers of romance and adven- 
ture, but to students of English history.”— Gazette, Colorado Springs. 

“ The ‘ White Rose of Arno ’ will delight all lovers of a good romantic novel.” 

— Eagle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

” ... in this tale we are given a most stirring picture of the time of Charles 

Edward, the Pretender, and his devoted supporters. Nearly all of the incidents take 
place amid the hills and vales of beautiful Wales, and the contrast between scenery 
and wild human passions does much to heighten the effect of the story, which is very 
well told. The author is a Welshman, and the scenes he depicts one feels still burn 
within his soul ; hence his narrative is in the highest degree animated and forceful.” 

— Evening Transcript, Boston. 

”... The story never lags for a moment, nor sags from its pitch of high 
heroism . . . Some of the scenes rival those others, well known, and, indeed, 
famous in ‘ David Balfour,’ and ‘ Kidnapped.’ . . . It is a splendid story. . . . 
Prince Charles figures more as a shadow in the background than a leader, but he im- 
presses himself vividly as a great personal inspiration.” — Times-Herald, Chicago. 

” Owen Rhoscomyl has already written some rare stories of the wars of the Com- 
monwealth that have met with a splendid showing of practical appreciation by a 
world-wide circle of readers. This latest novel by the pleasing Welsh writer is one of 
the most powerful romances that have emanated from his pen, and will doubtless re- 
ceive as graceful a welcome to fiction literature as his previous efforts have done. It 
is a stirring story of Wales when the Roundheads were warring against the cavaliers, 
and Charles I of England lost his head and his coveted throne. .The story is brimful 
of fighting, of hard travel and riding, and old-time love making, and the flavor of old 
world chivalry in the tenderer portions of the novel is charming and complete. With 
the pen of a realist, the author hurries his readers back to live over the dead, old wars, 
to dwell in strange Welsh castles that long ago crumbled into dust, and to view the 
history and romances of those early days as something tangible with our own exist- 
ences. The style is always active, virile and picturesque, and there is not a dull or 
tame chapter in the book.” — Courier, Boston. 

*‘ The story is told with spirit, and holds the attention without effort. The action 
is swift, the episodes stirring, the character drawing admirable, and the style good. 
The ultimate defeat of the Pretender, and the final denouement are tragic in their 
intensity, and powerfully pictured.” — Brooklyn Times. 

“ This is a reallj’^ stirring story, full of wild adventure, yet having an atmosphere 
of historic truthfulness, and conveying incidentally a good deal of information that is 
evidently based upon fresh study.” — Times, Philadelphia. 


LON&MANS, GBEEN, & 00„ 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW XOEK. 


FLOTSAM. 

THE STUDY OF A LIFE. 

By henry SETON MERRIMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “with EDGED TOOLS,” “ THE SOWERS,” ETC. 

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. G. MASSEY. 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ The scene of this thoroughly interesting book is laid at the time of the great 
Indian mutiny of 1857, and the chapters devoted to that terrible episode in the history 
of English rule in India are among the most interesting in the volume, the capture of 
Delhi in particular being graphically described.” — Herald, Oneonta, N. Y. 

“ It is a powerful study,” — Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. 

“ One of the strongest novels of the season.”— Boston Advertiser. 

“ It is decidedly a novel worth reading.”— New England Magazine. 

“ . , . From first to last our interest in the dramatic development of the plot is 
never allowed to flag. ‘ Flotsam ’ will amply sustain the reputation which Mr. 
Merriman has won.” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“ It is a rather stirring story, dealing with breezy adventures in the far East, and 
sketching in strong outlines some very engaging phases of romance in India not down 
in Mr. Kipling’s note-books.”— Independent, New York. 

“ It is a novel of strong, direct, earnest purpose, which begins well in a literary 
sense and ends better.”— Sun, Baltimore. 

“ A brilliant gift for characterization and dramatic effect put his novels among 
the best of the season for entertainment, and, to no small extent, for instruction.” 

—Dial, Chicago. 

“ Mr. Merriman can write a good story ; he proved that in ‘ The Sowers,’ and he 
shows it anew in this. . . . The story is a strong one and told with freshness and 

simple realism,”— Current Literature, New York. 

“ His story is remarkably well told.” — Herald, Columbia, Mo. 

“ It is a novel written with a purpose, yet it is entirely free from preaching or 
moralizing. The young man, Harry Wylam, whose career from childhood to the 
prime of manhood is described, is a bright, daring, and lovable character, who starts 
with every promise of a successful life, but whose weakness of will, and love of 
pleasure, wreck his bright hopes midway. The author shows unusual skill in dealing 
with a subject which in less discreet hands might have been an excuse for morbidity.” 

—Boston Beacon. 

“ A story of lively and romantic incident. . . . His story is remarkably well 
told.” — New York Sun. 

“ The story is full of vigorous action . . . and interesting.” 

— Public Opinion. 


LONaMARS, GREER, & 00., 91-93 FIETH AVERUE, REW YORK. 


THE PRINCESS DESIREE 

A ROMANCE 

By CLEMENTINA BLACK 

AUTHOR OF “an AGITATOR,” “ MISS FALKLAND,” ETC. 

With 8 Full-page Illustrations by John Williamson 
i2mo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25 


“ The reader who begins this very fascinating tale will feel bound to finish it. . 

. . . The story runs naturally in a highly romantic vein. It is, however, so brightly 
and choicely written and is so interesting throughout, as to be to the reader a source 
of real delight.” — Aberdeen Daily Free Press. 

“ Miss Black may be congratulated on achieving a distinct success and furnishing 
a thoroughly enjoyable tale.” — Athen^um, London. 

“ Is a romantic story of the adventures of the heiress to a pretty German princi- 
pality. It has a pure love story, and is written with spirit.” — Outlook, New York. 

“ There is plenty of intrigue and royal family affairs, and those who love a his- 
torical novel will enjoy this one. It has the air of being founded on facts.” — Com- 
mercial Tribune, Cincinnati. 

“ Once in a while there appears a novel that, without manifesting any special 
originality, yet leaves with its reader a sense of satisfaction that many more im- 
portant works fail to give. Such a story is the “ Princess Desiree.” — Buffalo 
Express. 

“ The story is thoroughly satisfactory, it contains little sentiment but many inter- 
esting situations, and much forceful action. It is told with a directness that attracts 
in these busy days and is an admirable picture of French and German intrigue. It is 
well illustrated and bound.” — Boston Times. 

“This readable novel may.be read at a sitting with unflagging in- 

terest.” — Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ The plot is exceedingly well managed, in spite of its demands upon the credulity 
of the reader, and the author’s style is terse, clear cut, and piquant. The eight full- 
page illustrations by John Williamson are cleverly done.” — Boston Beacon. 

“A brightly written story, full of unusual adventure of a quasi-political nature. 
... Is entertaining reading throughout.”— Press, Philadelphia. 

“A vivacious novel.” — Public Opinion, New York. 

“ It is amusing in the picture it gives of the sudden change of an ardent Republi- 
can, through love for one of the royal race, to. a Monarchist. There is a pleasant 
freshness of tone about it, and Ludovic De Sainte is quite as worthy of the Grand 
Duchess of Felsenheim as was Rudolph of the Princess Fluvia. The political intrigue 
is simple yet very exciting and effec :ive. There is no effort at high tragedy, but the 
plot is simply and skillfully developed and holds interest well. . . . Altogether, it 

IS a brave story, and you will like to read it.” — Nassau Literary Magazine, Prince- 
ton, N. J. 

“The Princess Ddsirde . . . , will win universal praise. It is one of the 

most charming love stones that have been published of late years, pure and optimistic, 
reminding us, but by no means as a servile imitation, of another lady, the romantic 
‘Princess Osra,’ whose heart, or want of heart, was so ably described by Mr, 
Anthony Hope.” — Star, Montreal. 

“ Except that there is nothing in it that is either supernatural or essentially im- 
probable, it has much of the charm of a fairy tale. The style is purq and the story 
dramatic with the additional attraction of eight or ten well executed illustrations.— 
San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ There is enough exciting interest in ‘ The Princess D^sir^e ’ to make one wish 

to read it through as soon as possible There is an undesirable charm in 

the narrative.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 


LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 


WAYFARING MEN, 


By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF “DONOVAN,” “ WE TWO,” “DOREEN,” ETC. 


Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


“ . . . We take up Edna Lyall’s last novel . . . with high expectations, and 

we are not disappointed. Miss Bayly has acquired a wonderful insight into human nature, 
and this last production of her pen is full of the true portrayals of life. . . . The whole 

book is a whiff of ‘ caller air ’ in these days of degenerate fiction.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ One of her best stories. It has all the qualities which have won her popularity in the 
past.” — S entinel, Milwaukee. 

“A well- written and vigorous story.” — O bserver, New York. 

“It is a strong story, thoroughly well constructed, . . . with the characters very 

skilfully handled. . . . Altogether the story is far above the ordinary, and bids fair to 
be one of the most successful of the opening season.” — C ommercial, Buffalo. 

“ Edna Lyall . . . has added another excellent volume to the number of her ro- 
mances. . . .It sustains the reputation of the author for vigorous writing and graceful 

depicting of life, both in the peasant’s cabin and the noble’s hall.’’ 

— Observer, Utica, New York. 

“ Miss Lyall’s novel is one of unflagging interest, written in that clear, virile style, with 
its gentle humor and dramatic effectiveness, that readers well know and appreciate. . . . 

On many pages of the story the writer reveals her sympathetic admiration for Ireland and 
the Irish. ‘Wayfaring Men ’ is a literary tonic to be warmly welcomed and cheerfully com- 
mended as an antidote to much of the unhealthy, morbid, and enervating fiction of the day.” 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

“ The author has made a pretty and interesting love-story, ... a truthful picture of 
modem stage life, and a thoroughly human story that holds the interest to the end.” 

— Tribune, Chicago. 

“ It is a story that you will enjoy, because it does not start out to reform the world in less 
than five hundred pages, only to wind up by being suppressed by the government. It is a 
bright story of modern life, and it will be enjoyed by those who delighted in ‘ Donovan,’ 
‘ We Two,’ and other books by this author.” — C incinnati Tribune. 

“A new book by Edna Lyall is sure of a hearty welcome. ‘Wayfaring Men’ will not 
disappoint any of her admirers. It has many of the characteristics of her earlier and still 
popular books. It is a story of theatrical life, with which the author shows an unusually 
extensive and sympathetic acquaintance.” — N ew Orleans Picayune. 

“ Characterized by the same charming simplicity of style and realism that won for 
‘ Donovan’ and ‘ Knight Errant ’ their popularity. . . . Sliss Lyall has made no attempt 

to create dramatic situations, though it is so largely a tale of stage life, but has dealt with 
the trials and struggles of an actor’s career with an insight and delicacy that are truly pleas- 
ing.” — T he Argonaut, San Francisco. 

“ Is a straightforward, interesting story, in which people and things theatrical have 
much to do. The hero is an actor, young and good, and the heroine— as Miss Lyall’s hero- 
ines are sure to be— is a real woman, winning and lovable. There is enough excitement in 
the book to please romance-lovers, and there are no problems to vex the souls of those who 
love a story for the story’s sake. It will not disappoint the large number of persons who 
have learned to look forward with impatient expectation to the publication of Miss Lyall’s 
‘next novel.’ ‘ Wayfaring Men’ is sure of a wide and a satisfied reading.” 

— Womankind, Springfield, Ohio. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & GO., 91-93 FIPTH AYE,, NEW YORK. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 

A ROMANCE OF BORROWDALE. 

By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF “DOREEN,” “WAYFARING MEN,” ETC. 


Crown Svo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


'‘When Edna Lyall wrote this book she stepped into the front rank of living novelists. 
It exemplifies the finest type of historical romance, which is, of course, the highest form of 
fictions literature. The scene of the story is one of the loveliest which could have been 
chosen, the lake region of England. . . . Her story is full of life and incident, and at 

the same time conveys lessons of high morality. . . . Altogether this is one of the 

healthiest, purest, best, and most powerful romances in the whole range of English 
literature.” — Living Church, Chicago. 

“ Miss Bayly ... by careful examination of her authorities has been able to con- 
struct an uncommonly good romance of the days when brother’s hand was against brother. 
It is distinctly good work — a stirring story and in every way creditable to the author.” 

— Public Opinion, New York. 

“ The characters are well drawn, never mere puppets. There is a coherent, well- 
thought-out, and carefully developed plot, and the style is clear and straightforward. The 
story is wholesome and interesting, and much better worth reading than a good many of 
the so-called ‘ stories of adventure.’ ” — Beacon, Boston. 

“ There are few novelists of the present day whose writings are better known and liked 
than those of Edna Lyall. They are always clean, pure and wholesome, and delightful read- 
ing. The latest, ‘ Hope the Hermit,’ deals with her favorite period, the seventeenth century. 
We have the revolution, the accession of William and Mary, and the Jacobite plots, and 
among the real characters introduced are Archbishop Tillotson, Lady Temple and George 
Fox, the Quaker. . . . The story ends as all love stories should, to be perfectly satisfactory 
to the average novel reader, and ‘ Hope the Hermit ’ will find many readers, who are fond 
of a good story well told.” — Advertiser, Portland, Me. 

“ She is quite at home with her theme. . . . It is a fine historical novel, admirably 

written, and one of her best books.” — Literary World, Boston. 

“ ... is one of those delightful stories that have made the author very popular 

and that one can take up with the absolute certainty of finding nothing unclean or repel- 
lent. It is a clear, strong, well-designed, refreshing story, based upon scenes and events 
in the days of William and Mary of England — days when a man could hardly trust his own 
brother, and when sons were on one side in a rebellion, and the father on the other. . . . 
Many of the situations are very exciting, the characters are admirably drawn, and the whole 
telling of the story is entertaining, grateful and artistic. We regard it as quite as good as 
‘ Donovan,’ and the other popular stories by the same author.” — Buffalo Commercial. 

“ Miss Bayly has kept her pages clean and white. The book is preeminently suitable 
to the shelves of a circulating library, as well as to the reading-table under the family lamp. 
It not only entertains, but gives historical data in a pleasantly impressive manner . . . 

we have, notwithstanding a few extravagances, a very fascinating story, enlivened by the 
admitted license of the writer of romance.” — Home Journal, New York. 

“ This latest work of Miss Bayly has all the qualities which have won her popularity in 
the past. The book should have a considerable vogue, appealing, as it does, not only to 
those who like quick action, plenty of adventure, and much picturesqueness, but also to 
those who have a cultivated literary palate.” — Dispatch, Richmond, Va. 

“ ... is one of the best specimens of Edna Lyall’s talent for telling a good story 

in engaging style. . . . The reader's attention is held throughout.” 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

“There is much in this book to commend it. It is original and has great activity. 
, . . Miss Lyall possesses literary talent, and her style is clear, and, to one unfamiliar 

with her writings, this latest production will be a delightful treat. The reader will put it 
down delighted with the story, refreshed by the study of the merits and faults of its charac- 
ters, and cogitating upon the great events which, during the making of English history, 
followed quickly one upon another toward the close of the seventeenth century.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 


lONaMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIPTH AVE., HEW YOKE. 


HEART OF THE WORLD 


A STORY OF MEXICAN ADVENTURE. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OF “she,” “Montezuma’s daughter,” “the people or the mist,” btc- 


With 13 full-page Illustrations by Amy Sawyer. 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


** The adventures of Ignatio and his white friend will compare for strangeness with any 
that the writer has imagined. And the invention of the city and people of the heart, of the 
secret order, with its ritual and history, and the unforeseen crisis of the tale, shows that the 
quality that most distinguishes the author’s former works is still his in abundance. . . . 

The tale as a whole is so effective that we willingly overlook its improbability, and so novel 
that even those who have read all of Rider Haggard’s former works will still find something 
surprising in this.” — The Critic. 

“ Here are strange adventures and wonderful heroisms. The scene is laid in Mexico. 
The story rehearses the adventures of an athletic Englishman who loves and weds an 
Indian princess. There are marvelous descriptions of the ‘ City of the Heart,’ a mysteri- 
ous town hemmed in by swamps and unknown mountains.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ Has a rare fascination, and in using that theme Mr. Haggard has not only hit upon 
a story of peculiar charm, but he has also wrought out a story original and delightful to 
even the most jaded reader of the novel of incident.” — Advertiser, Boston. 

“It is a fascinating tale, and the reader will not want to put the book down till he has 
read the last word.” — P icayune, New Orleans. 

“The lovers of Rider Haggard’s glowing works have no reason to complain of his latest 
book. . . . The story is, all in all, one of the most entertaining of the author’s whole 

list.” — Traveller, Boston. 

“ In its splendor of description, weirdness of imagery, its astonishing variety of detail, 
and the love story which blends with history and fantasy, the book without doubt is a 
creation distinct from previous tales. Maya, the Lady of the Heart, is an ideal character. 
. . . Interest is sustained throughout.” — Post, Chicago. 

“ The success of Mr. Haggard’s stories consists in the spirit of adventure which runs 
through them, in their rapid succession of incidents, in the bustle which animates their 
characters, and in the trying situations in which they are placed. . . . this last story 

. . . introduces his readers ... to a comparatively new field of fiction in the evolu- 

tion of an ancient Aztec tradition concerning the concealed existence of a wonderful Golden 
City. . . .” — Mail and Express, New York. 

“A thrilling story of adventure in Mexico. It is doubtful if he has surpassed in vivid 
coloring his delineation of the character of ‘Maya.’ This work is really a notable addition 
to the great body of romance with which his name is associated.” — Press, Philadelphia. 

“ This romance is really one of the best he has given us.” — Times, Philadelphia. 

“ When the love of romance shall die in the human heart we may bid farewell to all that 
is best in fiction. . . . In this story we have the same reckless dash of imagination and 

the same gorgeous profusion of barbaric scenes and startling adventure which have always 
characterized Mr. Haggard’s works.” — Independent, New York. 

“ His latest, and one of his most powerful stories. It shows the same trenchant, effective 
way of dealing with his story ; and the same power in open, startling situations. It will 
;ive the reader some new idea of that ancient people, the Aztecs, as well as of the more mod- 
Tn Mexicans. It is as strong as ‘King Solomon’s Mines.’ ” — Times, Hartford. 


lONaMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 EIFTH AVE., NEW YOKE. 


MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OF SHE,” “ ALLAN QUATERMAIN,” “ NADA THE LILy,** ETC. 

With 24 full-page Illustrations and Vignette by Maurice 
Greiffenhagen. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.25. 

"’agi® spells, hold his attention with 
power so sttong that only the completion of the novel can satisfy his interest. . In 

T treated with a subtle power . . . this latest production 

?01^c?”-P;^lS"0p,Zn. historical novel the charm of a splendid 

Mr. Haggard has done nothing better ... it may well be doubted if he has ever 
done anything half so good. The tale is one of the good, old-fashioned sort, filled with the 
elements ot romance and adventure, and it moves on from one thrilling situation to another 
with a celerity and verisimilitude that positively fascinate the reader. ... The story is 
^ d with astonishing variety of detail, and in its main lines keeps close to historical truth, 
ihe author has evidently written with enthusiasm and entire love of his theme, and the result 
IS a really splendid piece of romantic literature. The illustrations, by Maurice Greififenhacen. 
are admirable in spirit and technique.” — Boston Beacon. 

• All ^ good deal of the quality that lent such interest to ‘ King Solomon’s Mines’ and 

' j’ * England, Spain, and the country which is now Mexico afford 
the neld of the story, and a great number of most romantic and blood-stirring activities occur 
in each . , , a successful story well constructed, full of devious and exciting action, 

and we believe that it will find a multitude of appreciative readers.” Sun, N. Y. 

* It is a tale of adventure and romance, wdth a fine historical setting and with a vivid 
reproduction of the manners and people of the age. The plot is handled with dexterity and 
skill, and the reader’s interest is always seen. There is, it should also be noted, nothing like 
nilgar sensationalism in the treatment, and the literary quality is sound throughout. 

Among the very best stories of love, war, and romance that have been written.” 

— ^The Outlook. 

'* Is the latest and best of that popular writer’s works of fiction. It enters a new 
field not before touched by previous tales from the same author. In its splendor of descrip- 
tion, weirdness of imagery, and wealth of startling incidents it rivals ' King Solomon’s Mines ’ 
and other earlier stories, but shows superior strength in many respects, and presents novelty 
of scene that must win new and more enduring fame for its talented creator. . . . The 

analysis of human motives and emotions is more subtle in this work than in any previous 
production by Mr. Haggard. The story will generally be accorded highest literary rank 
among the author’s works, and will prove of fascinating interest to a host of readers.” 

— Minneapolis Spectator. 

“ Is full of the magnificence of the Aztec reign, and is quite as romantic and unbelievable 
as the most fantastic of his earlier creations.” — Book Buyer. 

We should be disposed to rank this volume next to ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ in order 
of interest and merit among the author’s works.” — Literary World, Boston. 

” It is decidedly the most powerful and enjoyable book that Mr. Rider Haggard has 
written, with the single exception of ‘ Jess.’ ” — Acadfmv. 

Mr. Haggard has rarely done anything better than this romantic and interesting narra- 
tive. Throughout the story we are hurried from one thrilling experience to another, and the 
whole book is written at a level of sustained passion, which gives it a very absorbing hold on 
our imagination. A special word of praise ought to be given to the excellent illustrations.” 

, , , - „ , L . • —Daily Telegraph. 

Perhaps the best oi all the authors stories. 

The great distinguishing quality of Rider Haggard is this magic power of seizing and 
holding his readers so that they become absorbed and abstracted from all earthly things while 
their eyes devour the page. ... A romance must have ‘grip.’ . , . This romance 

possesses the quality of ‘grip’ in an eminent degree.” — Walter Besant in the Author. 

‘‘The story is both graphic and exciting, . . . and tells of the invasion of Cortes; 

but there are antecedent passages in England and Spain, for the hero is an Engli.sh adven- 
turer who finds his way through Spain to Mexico on a vengeful quest. I'he vengeance is cer- 
tainly satisfactory, but it is not reached until the hero has had as surprising a series of perils 
tnd ••scapes as even the fertile imagination of the author ever devised.”— D ial, Chicago 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 EIFIH AVE., NEW YOKE, 


JOAN HASTE. 

A NOVEL. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OF “she,” ‘‘HEART OF THE WORLD,” “ THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,” ETC., ETC. 


With 20 full-page Illustrations by F. S. Wilson. 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ It is less adventurous in theme, the tone is more quiet, and the manner more 
in keeping with the so-called realistic order of fiction than anything Mr. Haggard has 
heretofore published. ‘ Joan Haste ’ is by far the most earnest, and in many ways the 
most impressive work of Mr. Haggard’s that has yet been printed. The insight into 
character which it displays is almost invariably keen and true. Every personality in 
the story is fully alive, and individual traits of thought and action are revealed little 
by little as the narrative progresses, until they stand forth as definite and consistent 
creations.” — The Boston Beacon. 

“ All the strong and striking peculiarities that have made Mr. Haggard's earlier 
works so deservedly popular are repeated here in a new spirit. Not only that, but 
his literary execution shows an enlarged skill and betrays the master-hand of self- 
restrain* that indicate maturity of power. His conception of character is improved by 
the elimination of all crudeness and haste, and his delineations are consequently closer 
to life. One is reminded strongly of Dickens in his admirable drawing of minor char- 
acters. Mrs. Bird is such a character. . . . The illustrations of the book are nu- 
merous and strikingly good. Many of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and move the 
feelings to the higher pitch. . . . Even in the little concerns of the story the wealth 
of its imagination appears, glowing in the warmth of its unstinted creations. There is 
a splendor in his description, a weird spirit in his imagery, a marvelous variety of 
detail, and at all points a creative force that give a perpetual freshness and newness to 
the fiction to which he gives his powers. To take up one of his fascinating books is 
to finish it, and this story of ‘ Joan Haste ’ is not to be outdone by the best of them all. 
The strength, emphasis, and vigor of his style as well as of his treatment is to be 
credited to none but superior gifts and powers. . . . ‘ Joan Haste ’ will become 
the favorite of everybody.” — Boston Courier. 

“ Mr. Haggard’s new story is a sound and pleasing example of modern English 
fiction ... a book worth reading. ... Its personages are many and well 
contrasted, and all reasonably human and interesting.” — New York Times. 

“ In this pretty, pathetic story Mr. Haggard has lost none of his true art. . . . 
In every respect ‘Joan Haste’ contains masterly literary work of which Mr. Haggard 
has been deemed incapable by some of his former critics. Certainly no one will call 
his latest book weak or uninteresting, while thousands who enjoy a well-told story of 
tragic, but true love, will pronounce ‘Joan Haste’ a better piece of work than Mr. 
Haggard’s stories of adventure.”— Boston Advertiser. 

“ This story is full of startling incidents. It is intensely interesting.” 

— Cleveland Gazette. 

“ The plot thickens with the growth of the story, which is one of uncommon interest 
and pathos. The book has the advantage of the original illustrations.” 

— Cleveland Wo»ld. 

“‘Joan Haste’ is really a good deal more than the ordinary novel of English 
country life. It is the best thing Haggard has done. There is some character sketch- 
ing in it that is equal to anything of this kind we have had recently.” 

— Courier, Lincoln, Neb. 

“ In this unwonted field he has done well. ‘Joan Haste ’ is so far ahead of his for- 
mer works that it will surprise even those who have had most confidence in his ability. 

To those who read Thomas Hardy’s ‘ Tess of the D’Urbervilles ’ the atmosphere 
and incidents of ‘Joan Haste ’ will seem familiar. It is written along much the same 
lines, and in this particular it might be accused of a lack of originality; but Haggard 
haccome dangerously close to beating Hardy in his own field. Hardy’s coarseness is 
missing, but Hardy’s power is excelled.” — Munsey’s Magazine. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00.. 91-93 EIFTH AVENUE, NEW TOEK. 


THE WIZARD. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OF “SHE,” “ KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” “ JOAN HASTE,” ETC., ETC. 


With 1 9 full-page Illustrations by Charles Kerr. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


" I owe an exciting, delightful evening once more to a pen — say a voice — which 
has held me a willing prisoner in a grasp of iron. It is now ten years ago, I think, 
since 1 gave Mr. Rider Haggard my opinion that for the rest of his life he would have 
‘She’ always with him to be compared with what might follow. That incomparable 
romance, indeed, has never been surpassed by any living writer. Rider Haggard is 
the possessor of an imagination stronger, more vivid, more audacious than is found in 
any other writer of the time. I say this in order to introduce his latest work, ‘ The 
Wizard.’ It is only a short tale— too short — but it shows imaginative power that makes 
it worthy to follow after ‘ She.’ ” — Sir Walter Besant, in ” The Queen.” 

“ The scene of this thrilling story is laid in Africa, but in many respects it is a new 
departure for the writer. . . . has never written anything more pathetic or with 

greater force than this tale of a missionary venture and a martyr's death. The ‘ Pass- 
ing Over ’ is told with a simple beauty of language which recalls the last passages in 
the life of the martyred Bishop Hannington. As for the improbabilities, well, they are 
cleverly told, and we are not afraid to say that we rather like them ; but Haggard has 
never achieved a conception so beautiful as that of Owen, or one that he has clothed 
with so great a semblance of life.”— Pacific Churchman, San Francisco. 

” ‘ The Wizard ’ is one of his most vivid and brilliant tales. Miiacles are no new 
things in the frame-work used by the writers of fiction, but no one has attempted just 
the use of them which Haggard makes in this novel. It is so entirely new, so abso- 
lutely in line with the expressed beliefs of devout folk everywhere, that it ought to 
strike a responsive chord in the popular heart as did ‘ Ben Hui",’ and should be equally 
successful.” — Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

“ Mr. Haggard gives full play in the history of the conversion of the Son of Fire 
to his strong imagination, and he has succeeded admirably in conveying an earnest 
religious lesson, while telling one of his most exciting and entertaining stories.” 

— Beacon, Boston. 


“It is to be read at one sitting, without resisting that fascination which draws you 
on from one to another critical moment of the story, to resolve some harrowing doubt 
or dilemma. . . . Hokosa, the wizard, whose art proved at first so nearly fatal to 

the messenger’s cause, and whose devilish plots resulted finally in conversion s^nd 
Christianity, is one of Mr. Haggard’s best creations. The portrait has a vigor and 
picturesqueness comparable to that of' Allan Quatermain.’ ” 

~ — Picayune, New Orleans. 

‘ It has all the spirit and movement of this popular author’s finest work.” 

—Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 


“ A brilliant story truly, and here and there alive with enthusiasm and fire. Mr* 
Hasfgard describes savage combats with rare skill, and, somehow, we revel with hjn? 
when he shows us legion after legion of untamed children of nature fighting to the grim 
death with uncouth weapons yet with as dauntless a courage as the best trained soldiers 
of Europe. It may be wrong for him to stir up our savage in^incts, but, after all, t 
healthy animalism is not to be scoffed at in any breed of men. New York Herald. 

“ Is as full of adventure as the most ardent admirer of tales of courage and daring 
could desire. As its title implies, it portrays a character who is an adept in witch- 
craft, cunning, and knowledge of human nature. There is a distinct religious element 
throughout the book ; indeed, but for its religious motive 


LONaMANS, GEEEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., HEW YOEK. 


SWALLOW 

A STORY OF THE GREAT TREK 

By H. rider haggard 

AUTHOR OF “ SHE,” ” KING SOLOMOn’S MINES,” “ JOAN HASTE,” “ THE WIZARD,” ETC., ETC. 


With 12 full'page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, 
Ornamental, $1.50 


“ The hand of the author of ‘ She ’ has not lost its cunning. Indeed, we think it 
will be the verdict of most readers of ‘ Swallow ’ that, great as Conan Doyle and 
Stanley Weyman are in the field of romance, in the art of sheer, unadulterated story- 
telling, Rider Haggard is the master of them all. ‘Swallow’ is an African story, a 
tale of the Boers and Kaffirs and Zulus, and it grips the attention of the reader from 
the very beginning and holds it steadily to the end. The tale is told by an old Boer 
woman, ‘ the Vrouw Botmar,’ and it is a masterpiece of narration. . . . The finest 
portrait of all is that of the little Kaffir witch doctoress, Sihamba, who will live in the 
reader’s memory long after he has closed the book, and who is a worthy companion of 
the great Umslopogaas himself. Altogether * Swallow ' is a remarkable romance.” 

— Charleston News. 

” It is a slashing, dashing . . . romance of Boers and Kaffirs in South Africa that 
Rider Haggard has given his admirers under the title, ‘ Swallow.’ The title is the Kaffir 
name for the charming Boer maiden, Suzanne Botmar. . . ‘Swallow’ is one of 

those utterly impossible and yet altogether engrossing tales that Rider Haggard knows 
so well how to weave. He is always at best among the kloofs and kopjes of South 
Africa, and his many admirers will be delighted to know that he has returned to the 
field of his early successes.”— Chicago Tribune. 

‘‘The Englishman’s long pursuit of his bride ; the manner in which she escaped 
from Swart Piet only to encounter as great perils in her wanderings, and how she 
dwelt among savages for two years, with Sihamba, the little witch doctoress and ruler 
of the Tribe of the Mountains, gives Mr. Haggard ample opportunity to display his 
ingenuity as a plot-maker, and illustrates his wonderful powers of dramatic narration. 
The story is crowded with incident leading up to the tiagic encounter on the cliff 
between Ralph and Swart Piet and the torture and death of Sihamba. Lovers of the 
wild and adventurous, subtly touched with the supernatural, will find ‘ Swallow ’ 
quite to their liking.”— Detroit Free Press. 

‘‘ A thrilling tale, brimming over with adventure, and full of the savage loves and 
hates and fightings of uncivilized peoples. ... In such stories of wild adventure 
Rider Haggard has no equal, and ‘ Swallow ’ will be read with the unflagging interest 
we have given to the author’s other romances.” — Picayune, New Orleans, La. 

‘‘ It is justly considered one of the very best of this author’s productions. ... It 
is unquestionably a very entertaining story of Boer life.” — Hartford Post. 

‘‘ A story, which once begun, must be read to the end.” — New York Tribune. 

‘‘ The interest grows as one goes on, and at the close it is at least an open question 
whether he has ever done a better piece of work. ... It may safely be said that 
few who begin the story will fail to read on with growing interest to the end, and that 
most will part from the characters with genuine regret.” — Hartford Times. 

” One of the things Rider Haggard can always contrive to do is to tell a thrilling 
tale, to keep his readers trembling on the verge of discovery or torn with anxiety until 
the very last line of the book. His happy hunting-ground is South Africa, and there is 
located ‘ Swallow,’ than which few of his romances have been better reading. We 
find it preferable, for our own part, to such an extravaganza as ‘ She,’ since it deals 
with people in whom it is possible to take a more definite interest than in savages or 
magicians. . . . A thrilling and unusual story.” — Milwaukee Sentinel. 

” Once more the African wizard has waved his enchanted wand and conjured out 
of the mysterious Dark Continent another fascinating romance. ... It is ques- 
tionable if the author has ever produced a story in all respects better than this.” 

— Philadelphia Press. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 PIFTH AVENUE, NEW TORE. 


THE CHEVALIER D’AURIAC. 

A ROMANCE. 

By S. LEVETT YEATS. 

AUTHOR OF “the HONOUR OF SAVELLI,” ETC., ETC. 

1 2mo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 


“ The story is full of action, it is alive from cover to cover, and is so compact with thrill- 
ing adventure that there is no room for a dull page. The chevalier tells his own story, but 
he is the most charming of egoists. He wins our sympathies from the outset by his boyish 
naivete, his downright manliness and bravery. . . . Not only has Mr. Yeats written an 

excellent tale of adventure, but he has shown a close study of character which does not bor- 
row merely from the trappings of historical actors, but which denotes a keen knowledge of 
human nature, and a shrewd insight into the workings of human motives. . . . The 
fashion of the period is kept well in mind, the style of writing has just that touch of old. 
fashioned formality which serves to veil the past from the present, and to throw the lights 
and shadows into a harmony of tone. . . . The work has literary quality of a genuine 

sort in it, which raises it above a numerous host of its fellows in kind.“ 

— Bookman, New York. 


“ . . . A story of Huguenot days, brim full of action that takes shape in plots, sud- 

den surprises, fierce encounters, and cunning intrigues. The author is so saturated with the 
times of which he writes that the story is realism itself. . . . The story is brilliant and 

thrilling, and whoever sits down to give it attention will reach the last page with regret.” 

— Globe, Boston. 


“ . . . A tale of more than usual interest and of genuine literary merit. . . . 

The characters and scenes in a sense seem far removed, yet they live in our hearts and seem 
contemporaneous through the skill and philosophic treatment of the author. Those men and 
women seem akin to us; they are flesh and blood, and are impelled by human motives as we 
are. One cannot follow the fortunes of this hero without feeling refreshed and benefited.” 

— Globe-Democrat, St. Louis. 


“A book that may be recommended to all those who appreciate a good, hearty, rollicking 
story of adventure, with lots of fierce fighting and a proper proportion of love-making. . . . 

There is in his novel no more history than is necessary, and no tedious detail ; it is a story 
inspired by, but not slavishly following, history. . . . The book is full of incident, and 

from the first chapter to the last the action never flags. ... In the Chevalier the author 
has conceived a sympathetic character, for d’ Auriac is more human and less of a puppet than 
most heroes of historical novels, and consequently there are few readers who will not find en- 
joyment in the story of his thrilling adventures. . . . This book should be read by all 

who love a good story of adventures. There is not a dull page in it.” — New York Sun. 

“A capital story of the Dumas-Weyman order. . . . The first chapters bring one 

right into the thick of the story, and from thence on the interest is unflagging. The Cheva- 
lier himself is an admirably studied character, whose straightforwardness and simplicity, 
bravery, and impulsive and reckless chivalry, win the reader’s sympathy. D’Auriac has 
something of the intense vitality of Dumas’s heroes, and the delightful improbabilities through 
which he passes so invincibly have a certain human quality which renders them akin to our 
day. Mr. Levett Yeats has done better in this book than m anything else he has written.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 


“The interest in the story does not lag for an instant; all is life and action. The pict- 
uresque historical setting is admirably painted, and the characters are skilfully drawn, espe- 
fially that of the king, a true monarch, a brave soldier, and a gentleman. The Chevalier is 
the typical hero of romance, fearing nothing save a stain on his honor, and with such a hero 
there can not but be vigor and excitement in every page of the story.” 

— Mail and Express, New York. 


“As a story of adventure, pure and simple, after the type originally seen in Dumas’s 
‘Three Musketeers,’ the book is well worthy of high praise.’ — Outlook, New York. 

“ We find all the fascination of mediaeval France, which have made Mr. Weyman’s stories 
such general favorites. . . . We do not see how any intelligent reader can take it up 

without keen enjoyment.” — Living Church, Chicago. 


IiONGMAUS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIPTH AVE., NEW YOEK. 


THE HEART OF DENISE 


X 


AND OTHER TALES. 


r 


By S. LEVETT-YEATS. 


AUTHOR OF “the chevalier d’aURIAC," “ THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI,” ETC. 


With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 


“The author of the fascinating and brilliant story of ‘The Chevalier d’Auriac’ 
knows the main roads and bypaths of the sixteenth century well, and in his latest 
essay in romance he catches the spirit of the times he portrays. With a few sugges- 
tive touches a brilliant, somewhat self-willed beauty of the court is sketched in Denise, 
whose flirtations, innocent enough upon her part, with the young but unscrupulous 
Marquis de Clermont, lead to a peremptory command on the part of the King for her 
marriage, at three hours’ notice, to Blaise de Lorgnac. . . . 

The story which gives the title to the book occupies something over a third of the 
volume. The remainder is a collection of eight short stories, most of which are some- 
what melodramatic in character, but all are brilliantly told.’’ 

— Chicago Tribune. 

“A good romantic story, graphically told.’’ 

— New York World. 

“A brief, rapid story of those picturesque days when the Flying Squadron fluttered 
its silken sails at the gay French court of which Catherine de Medici was the ruling 
spirit — such is ‘ The Heart of Denise,’ which may be praised as more in the style of 
‘The House of the Wolf’ or ‘A Gentleman of France ’ than anything Mr. Weyman is 
writing nowadays.’’ — Sentinel, Milwaukee, Wis. 

“A capital love story. . . . It is a pleasant story most pleasantly told. The 
other stories in the book are of equal interest ; they are told with admirable skill and 
most excellent art.” — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 

“ We find more varieties of talent than we remember in his earlier novels. ‘The 
Chevalier d’Auriac ’ and ‘The Honour of Savelli,’ ‘ The Heart of Denise ’ and ‘ The 
Captain Moratti’s Last Affair ’ resemble these in the romantic use of the historical 
material of which they are composed ; the other seven display a wider range of in- 
vention in different directions. Taken as a whole, the stories here are considerably 
above the average stories of better-known writers than Mr, Yeats.” 

— Mail and Express. 

“ All of them are bright, crisp and taking — generally weird and fanciful, but told 
with an easy and fluent swing which imparts a pleasant flavor to the most inconse- 
quential of their details.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

“There are many well-told adventures .... with a defined originality and 
manner.” — Balti.more Sun. 

“ Mr. Yeats writes: well ; in his Indian tales there is distinct touch of cleverness. 
The story that gives its name to the book is Weyman all over. There is a charming, 
if shrewish, heroine, a misjudged hero, a courtly villain, and the scene is laid in the 
France of the Medicis.” — Journal, Providence, R. I. 

“ The story of Denise is interesting and at times highly dramatic.” 

— St. Louis Republic. 

“ He has romance and pretty turn for dramatic episodes. . . , * The Captain 
Moratti’s Last Affair’ is a delightful tale tif Southern villainy, and drama, and the 
longest story in the book, ‘The Heart of Denise, ’ justifies us length by its romantic 
and thrilling character. The Indian tales show that while Mr. Yeats is far below Mr, . 
Kipling in the treatment of the material to be found among the natives, he is at any j 
rate clever and readable. His vignette of landscape are drawn with special grace.” 

— N. Y. Tribune. 


LONGMANS, GBELN, & 00., 91-93 PIFTH AYENUE, NEW YOEK. 










